


Blood Trail

by Ruby J (rubygirl29), rubygirl29



Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/Ruby%20J, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My thanks to my beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and Sue B. Sue N., this one's for you.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to my beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and Sue B. Sue N., this one's for you.

# Blood Trail

## by [Joan Curtin](mailto:jcurtin_29@yahoo.com)  


 **RATING:** PG13 with cautions for language and violence.

 **FEEDBACK:** Yes, please

 **DISCLAIMER:** This is a work of fiction based on the characters of the CBS series, The Magnificent Seven. I don't own 'em, I can't claim 'em, and I'm sure not making money off of 'em.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** My thanks to my beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and Sue B. Sue N., this one's for you.

* * *

  


### Part 1

Chris Larabee sat before his small fire and listened to the wind whistling outside his shack. Whistled plenty inside, too, with all the gaps in the walls that still needed filling and the poorly framed windows that he had never gotten around to repairing. The wind picked its way through the chinks with mournful sighs like a melancholy ghost haunting the small room. There was little enough joy here, and on this night, little enough peace. The bottle of whiskey in front of him was half-gone, and he felt as cold-stone sober as he had when he'd begun drinking, with only a raging headache to remind him of his indiscretions. He had come out here alone, and not even Buck had argued with his need for solitude. Buck knew what this day was, and he respected Chris's rage, grief, and hurt. There had been a time not long ago when he would have scourged everyone around him with his misery, but that much at least, had changed. He had ridden out of town with two bottles his saddlebag, and had come here to mourn his deda.

He stared at the whiskey, his green eyes dulled and shadowed. Lord, this wasn't what Sarah would have wanted for him, but he did not know how to move on without her, did not know how to give or accept kindness, or recognize love anymore. His humanity was gone to ashes, and the scars of that burning would never fade. He reached out and grasped the bottle, drank two more deep swallows, and then flung it into the fire. The residual alcohol flared with a sharp, intense light, stabbing at his eyes. He laid down his head and cried, and when he was done and felt as used up and dry as the desert at noon, he staggered to the bed in the corner and collapsed.

* * *

The same lonely wind that haunted Chris Larabee whispered to Vin Tanner. Like Chris, his solitude was a matter of choice, but unlike Larabee, there was no melancholy in it; just the need for a simple man to enjoy a peaceful night beneath the stars. Vin sat with his chin propped on his drawn-up knees, watching the flames dance. He could hear Peso moving restlessly and figured that some small desert creature was making the gelding skittish. Peso was ornery and cussedly stubborn, but at least he didn't give a man any lip. Vin smiled slightly, thinking of the other peacekeepers back in Four Corners.

They'd all been mighty edgy of late; a combination of the coming winter, too much work, and too close company between them. Even Buck, the most even-tempered of men had taken to sniping at the others — something Vin suspected was caused by his worry over Larabee. Buck had finally admitted that this was near the anniversary of Sarah and Adam's deaths — and he didn't see how the man could live through that without his grief scorching everyone standing within a mile of him. So by tacit agreement, they had split: Chris retreating to his shack where he could only cause damage to himself, Vin to the desert and peace; Nathan to his clinic, Josiah to the ruined chapel outside town. Ezra to his cards, and JD to Nettie and Casey's. Buck, alone, had stayed on the job, claiming that with everyone else gone to ground, he'd finally have some space to stretch out.

Peso seemed to have settled, and Vin was warm, fed, and relaxed. He sat back against his saddle, and looked at the stars overhead. The People had a hundred legends about each one it seemed, and they were all mighty pretty. Then Mary had read a few stories to him one day as he was practicing his letters, and he had discovered new legends that were as startling and lovely as any he had heard. Funny how stories and legends got made, he thought drowsily ... might even make a few of his own someday. Maybe Mary would like a poem about the stars ...

He slept. And woke to the cold touch of a gun at his throat.

His eyes flew open wide, but he could not see beyond a dark shadow looming against the starry sky. He lifted his hands slowly, wondering that they weren't shaking from the force of his heartbeat alone. "Listen, mister," he whispered, feeling the gun pressing against his Adam's apple, "All I got is this saddle and a mighty ornery horse, so if yer of a mind t'take him, I won't stand in yer way ..."

The shadow didn't move, didn't speak, just pressed that gun barrel harder against Vin's throat until he gagged with the force of it, and the darkness overhead and the darkness gathering at the edges of his eyes blurred into fathomless night.

He came up from that darkness, feeling consciousness returning one sense at a time: first sound — the crunch of stones beneath a boot heel, the hiss and crackle of a fire, a faint metallic clang of iron striking iron. Then smell — a musty, unpleasant scent near his face, a drift of acrid tobacco, horse. Touch. The bite of gravel against his back, a trickle of sweat down his neck, the rasp of fabric rubbing against the stubble on his cheeks. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. He tried to move and discovered he had been bound at wrists and ankles, and that a hood covered his face. Shit ... hog-tied and helpless. Seemed like the sins of his past had finally come home to roost. Never thought to go out like this. Whoever it was had done a fine job of stalking him ... Indian quiet and fox-clever ... and malicious.

"Hey —" Tried to get his captor's attention, and then wished he hadn't. A hard kick to the base of his spine sent a shock of pain fizzing along his backbone, numbing his arms and hands and jolting into his neck. Things went downhill from there.

Vin had lived with the Comanche, had survived the savage Civil War waged on the frontier, had seen men tortured, and carried on his own body the scars of punishments that brought him to screaming awareness in the middle of the night. But he had always known his tormentors, been able to look into their eyes and believe that as inhuman as their actions were, they had human motivations — greed, rage, hurt, revenge. That this nameless, faceless, demon in the night could inflict pain for no other reason than to cause pain, made it much worse. He had nothing to focus on, no way to see if they were ready to leave him alone when they realized he wasn't going to break; or that he did not know the answers to their questions, or just got plain sick and tired of being mean.

The blindness was disorienting. He could not protect himself, and his adversary was fiendish clever at taking him by surprise. He could stand a beating, he figured, and he did, though by the time it was over, he doubted there was an inch of skin on his body that wasn't bruised. And Lord, he hurt! After much too long a time there was a respite, and Vin breathed a small laugh of relief. He musta worn the fella out, and he was feeling pretty good about that until he was seized by rough hands.

There wasn't much that scared Vin. Being held down was his own private terror, raising demons that he didn't know existed. He drew in a breath and bowed his body, fighting with all the strength left in his wiry frame. His sudden motion caught his captor off-guard and for a brief, hopeful moment, Vin thought he might be able to fight, even tied as he was. That hope lasted for about five seconds before a hard clap on the side of his head brought the darkness back.

This time it was the touch of cold air on his skin that drew him to awareness. His aching body was stretched out face down against the dirt. His shirt had been cut from his torso. He thought if he could just be still perhaps they would leave him alone; get tired of waiting, and consider him carrion. They were too clever for that. He heard them approach, heard the sound of their breathing and smelled the sweat on their body. They stood over him, and he felt sick and light-headed with the anticipation of fresh agony.

They stepped away — no, they paced away — a slow, measured retreat. He heard the sound before he felt the pain. A whistle and a pop, then the fiery lash like lightning against his skin. He screamed — he thought he screamed — but he couldn't draw enough breath to make a sound. A shred of his conscious mind began counting slowly ... One, two, three ... four, five ... he passed out at ten.

* * *

Lord, what a dream. Musta been somethin' I ate, he thought and then he tried to move. A thousand different kinds of agony assailed him. He opened one eye. A line of ants marched past. Pebbles looked the size of boulders. He tried to moisten his lips, but there was no spit in his mouth. His hand lay alongside his face. Dark, dried, blood streaked across it, and his wrist was braceleted with raw and bleeding ligature marks. But he was not tied. His hair drifted across his face and he tried to lift his head. Red and black lights flashed across his field of vision. His stomach clenched and he retched weakly. Bile and blood stained the ground by his mouth. He remembered then, what had happened in the night.

When he clawed his way to consciousness again, the sun was strong in the sky and Peso was snuffling softly at his hair. _I have t'move,_ he thought. _If I cain't, I'm dead._ One muscle at a time, he gathered himself with infinite slowness, feeling each motion tearing open the fragile scabs on his back, ripping the torn muscle fibers, and bringing tears streaming down his face. He managed to grab Peso's dangling halter, and sobbed with relief that he could hang onto it.

"Mule, if yer worth more'n I paid fer ya, you'll stand still. Please .." he whispered. "Stand still." Attaining an upright posture brought on a fresh wave of nausea, and Vin's stomach cramped. He heaved weakly, staggering against Peso's side. When the spasm passed, he wound his fingers through Peso's mane, determined to haul himself up saddle or no. He couldn't think of anything but getting on that horse's back. Mounted, he had a chance to survive. There was a boulder nearby and Vin managed to lead Peso to it, managed to crawl up on it himself, and hold on to Peso's neck. "I swear, you get me outta this, I won't never say another bad word about ya. Don't matter what ya do. So jist stand still 'til I kin git on yer back ..."

Superhuman effort, lips bit bloody, his entire body trembling, Vin dragged himself up and slid his leg over Peso's back. He lay there alongside the gelding's neck, breathing hard, dizzy with pain. His inner compass was skewed, but Vin closed his eyes and waited until he could orient himself. West. Chris's shack was west. Five miles. He turned Peso and urged him forward. "I sure hope yer as smart as I figger, mule," he spoke into Peso's ear. "Otherwise, I was robbed."

* * *

The next day came with a vengeance. Chris threw an arm over his eyes to block out the intruding light. His mouth was foul, his head felt as swelled up as a melon, his stomach was roiling with acid and hunger, and his bladder was about to burst. It was the latter that forced him upright and out the door. When the urgency of that relief was past, he sank down on his stoop and buried his head in his hands. Misery and guilt sat on his shoulders like the weight of the world, and he was quietly grateful that he had found the good sense to leave Four Corners and come to this place where he could lick his wounds and tend to his grief in solitude, like an injured wolf.

When he could no longer stand feeling like shit, he went to the well and drew up a bucket of water. Stripping off his shirt, he plunged his hands into the chilly depths and splashed the water over his face and hair, feeling it slide down the lean rake of his back and ribs. Shivering in the light breeze, he went back inside and poured his first drink. If he could get through the day without killing himself, he would be fine for another long year.

He could not stay inside the shack. The walls were stifling him. After he made coffee and forced himself to eat some bread to settle his stomach, he took his bottle out on the stoop. He added a dollop of whiskey to his coffee, and drank it slowly, feeling the heat burn some of the fog of last night's bender away. His eyes were still aching and the sun reflecting off the pale earth dazzled him. A hint of distant motion caught his attention and he shaded his eyes from the glare. The dark blob resolved itself into a black horse with a white blaze. Peso. Goddamn, he'd have thought that of all the others, Tanner would have had the sense to leave him alone.

Chris sighed and stood up. He squinted at Peso's approach. Something was wrong; he couldn't see Tanner's distinctive silhouette. Chris headed down the path, dread quickening his pulse. He ran the last few yards, then drew up fast, afraid that his motion would spook the gelding. He held out his arms, waited for Peso to come nearer. His apprehension grew. Peso wasn't saddled, wore only a rope halter, and when Chris grabbed that halter, it was sticky with a dark substance that smelled like old iron. Blood. Cursing, Larabee ran his hand down Peso's flank. More blood. Jesus. Where was Tanner?

Chris tethered Peso near the water trough and saddled up his own mount. He resisted the impulse to set off at a heedless gallop, and instead, took a page from the tracker's book. He bent low over his horse's neck, and followed the fresh prints, praying that the trail would not end in death.

He found Vin several miles to the west, and nearly rode past what he took for a tussock of grass until the light caught a flash of something glistening and red. Chris reined in and dismounted. When he stood over the tracker's body, the earth seemed to rock beneath his feet, and he dropped to his knees. Tanner was laying face down in the dirt, his back so bloody that it looked like a slab of raw meat, and wherever he wasn't bleeding, his skin was dusky with bruises. Chris had been expecting bullet wounds, not this savagery beyond imagining.

"Vin? Vin!" he spoke urgently, but his hand was shaking as he stretched it out. How did you touch a man who had been flayed? Was he even alive? Chris laid a long finger alongside the vein in Tanner's neck and felt the flutter of a heartbeat. Alive, but what next? Chris rose and untied the blanket he had lashed to his saddle. It wasn't sanitary, but it was better than the dirt. As gently as he could, Chris laid the blanket over Vin's back and turned him face up. He breathed a prayer of relief. Aside from a dark bruise on his temple, Vin's face was untouched. It was the only mercy he had been granted. Chris brushed the dirt from Tanner's cheek and combed his fingers through his matted hair. "Jesus ... who did this to you?" He opened his canteen with his free hand and poured a few drops of water on Vin's lips. "C'mon, partner. I hate for you to wake up, but I have to get some water down you. You gotta drink." Another small splash of water, and Vin stirred in his arms. His eyes fluttered open, wide and blu!  
e, dazed with pain.

"Chris?"

"Yeah, it's me. Don't try to talk. Just drink this, and then we'll ride back home, real slow."

"Don't think I c'n do that ..."

"Well, damn it. You're gonna have to. Because I ain't spending the night out here without a bottle of whiskey." It was either joke or start crying. When Vin's pale lips curved in a smile, Chris felt his eyes burn.

"Peso?"

"Eatin' his head off in my stable. Now, be quiet and drink."

Vin managed three good swallows of water before he pushed the canteen away. "Sorry. It'll jist come back up ..."

Chris wasn't looking forward to the next few minutes. "Listen, pard. I'm sorry, but there's no other way to do this. You ready to move?"

The thought was nauseating, but Vin nodded. "S'alright, Chris. Ain't got the strength t'fight ya, or the breath t'holler. So I reckon I'll jist go along fer the ride."

Chris slipped his shoulder under Vin's arm and levered him upright. It was easier than he had expected; he hadn't thought the tracker would be so light. Even half-conscious, he didn't have much weight to support. Somehow, he got Vin on the horse's back and mounted behind him, cradling his body carefully. He had to go slowly; each jolt sent shivers of pain through the injured man. Chris was afraid that the moisture he felt on his shirt wasn't just perspiration, but Vin bleeding though the blanket.

By the time they reached the shack, the shadows were long, and Chris ached in every muscle of his body. Vin had fainted some time ago, and how he was going to get the tracker out of the saddle without him landing in a heap, was a problem that Chris hadn't managed to solve. As he crested the slight rise marking the boundaries of his land, he halted. There was smoke coming from his chimney, and a rangy gray horse tethered near Peso at the water trough. Buck. Damn him, and bless him. Sometimes Chris thought there might be a God after all.

* * *

All the while he had been riding out to Chris's shack, Buck had been castigating himself for meddling in what was none of his business. Chris was the most almighty stubborn bastard he'd ever met, but no man should've had to lose what he had lost, and Buck wasn't the type to let a friend suffer in solitude. He'd given Larabee twenty-four hours and if he hadn't killed himself yet, he might be lookin' for someone to share his misery. Buck figured he owed Larabee that much.

They'd been friends since the war, saved each other's hides more times than Buck could count, though he was pretty sure he was on the heavy end of the scale and should shovel some of that weight over to Chris. Larabee was the luckiest sonofabitch Buck had ever come across. Made it through the entire war without being killed or maimed, and had mustered out with a chip on his shoulder and a cocky attitude that he was pretty damn near immortal. Had lived like it too, until he met Sarah. Then suddenly all the sharp edges had been smoothed, Larabee's brittle heart softened, and peace had come into his breast. They had glowed with it, those two. When Adam was born, Lord, you would have thought He'd never created another child so perfect.

And then it had all become ashes and hate. Buck had hung around for a few months until the day Chris had damn near beat him to death in a drunken rage. Buck felt sorry for Larabee, and he had loved Sarah and Adam as if they were his own family, but he wasn't willing to sacrifice himself on the altar of Larabee's torment — he had a life to live, too. Hadn't seen much of Chris for a couple of years after that, though he had heard things that made him shudder. People spoke his name in whispers and fear, and it hurt Buck as much as if Chris had died. He had lived in expectation of that event until the day he had rolled off a roof and landed half-dressed at Larabee's feet. Damn, if he hadn't been glad to see the man, and now look where they were. Dealing justice together, and at times, Larabee seemed almost human again. Almost. Until the black dog started haunting his heels and despair settled in on his heart. Buck couldn't have explained why he was riding out to Larabee's shack to save him from himself but!  
for that glimmer of friendship that he saw in Chris's eyes.

When Buck saw Peso tethered at the water trough, he nearly turned back towards town. If Vin was there, Chris would be all right. Those two had a way of tending to themselves; as if the same river of sorrow was running through their souls. Buck had seen that from the first, and it had caused him a pang akin to jealousy until he came to terms with it. There was too much shared pain between him and Chris — hell, every time Chris looked at him, he must be reminded of Sarah and Adam. At least with Tanner, Chris didn't have to see those ghosts.

It was late and getting dark, which decided the issue. He'd stay. He tethered his horse next to Peso, making sure that the reins were short enough to keep a distance between them in case that devil horse of Vin's decided to get rambunctious, and went up on the porch. His eyes lit on the bottle of whiskey. Half-empty. Might be a good sign, might not. "Hey, Chris! Vin!" He knocked and pushed the door open slowly, anticipating to be greeted by the sound of guns being cocked. Nothing.

He supposed they might be off mending fences, so he stirred the fire back to life, retrieved the whiskey from the porch, and settled in to wait. He was falling into a comfortable doze, when he heard the slow approach of a shod horse. He grinned and went to the open door. "Hey, Larabee, it's about time ..." His voice trailed off as realized what he was seeing. He was down the steps in a single long stride.

"Take him, Buck. Careful of his back, " Chris rasped, and let Vin slip bonelessly into Buck's arms. It was such a relief to lay down that burden, that for a minute he couldn't move from the saddle, but sat until the burn in his muscles subsided to an bearable ache.

"Lord, what happened to him?"

"Don't know. Found him after Peso showed up riderless." Chris dismounted stiffly. "Get him inside." He followed Buck up the steps. "Put him on the cot so we can get a good look at him." The wind struck chill through his shirt, and he touched his fingers to the damp fabric; as he feared, his fingers came away bloody.

Buck handled the tracker like he was light as a feather and made of glass. He set him face down on the cot and carefully worked the blanket aside. He sighed. "Damn! Chris, get some water heated. I don't want to peel this back and open everything up again — least until we kin get Nathan out here."

When the water was heated, Buck began working the fabric away from the wounds on Vin's back, soaking the fibers so they would release the dried blood without tearing the scabs that had formed. Chris hovered nearby, hearing the soft stream of profanity that Buck muttered under his breath, feeling the knots in his clenched jaw and fists, praying for Vin to stay unconscious until Buck had the damn blanket off.

He nearly made it. The first sign that he was coming to was the faint hiss of an indrawn breath and the movement of his hands as they closed tight around the pillow beneath his head. "Aw hell, Tanner. Ya couldn't stay out fer a few more minutes?" Buck sighed. "Hold him, Chris."

Where? There wasn't an inch of whole skin on him that Chris could see. He laid his warm hands over Vin's icy fingers. "Hang in there, partner. It's nearly over." There was a faint glint of blue beneath lowered lashes and Vin's fingers curled around Chris's, holding on with as much strength as he had, yet still terrifyingly weak. As Buck peeled the last corner of blanket away, he made a small sound of pain, and passed out again. It was for the best, Buck thought as he looked down at the injuries laid open to the light.

"Shit, Chris. I don't even know where t'start takin'care of this," he said in an odd, strained voice. "We gotta get Nathan out here right away."

"Bring the others, too. I want them to see this, and then I want the bastard who did this, dead." Chris's voice sent a shudder through Buck. He had heard that tone once before. It wasn't a sound one was likely to ever forget. Whoever had done this had waked the gunslinger's implacable hate. This time he was not going to let the trail get cold before taking up the pursuit. And this time, he was not going to be alone.

"I will." Buck laid his hand on Chris's shoulder. "You take care of him, Chris."

Then he was out the door, and Chris heard him ride away like the hounds of hell were after him. He looked from Vin to the bottle of whiskey on the table. Lord, he wanted one drink, just one so he could distance himself from what was before his eyes. And then another, to give him the strength to do what needed to be done. And one more to dull the rage he felt burning inside of him. He drew a deep shuddering breath and nearly took that step over to the bottle, before he realized that what _he_ wanted would likely kill Vin through neglect. He turned back to the cot. He might not be able to bind up Vin's wounds, but there were things he could do to make his agony more bearable.

He tugged off Vin's boots and removed the rest his clothing as gently as he could. Stripped, the extent of the beating was even more evident. Bruises and welts marred the tracker's entire body, hinting at injuries that Chris didn't even want to contemplate. The huge discoloration at the base of his spine bespoke a deliberate brutality that made Chris want to vomit. He heated more water and began washing the blood away, not touching the raw skin on Vin's back, but cleaning the rest of him as tenderly as he had once washed his son. When he had finished, he covered Vin from the waist down with a blanket and found an old, soft shirt to lay over his back. The tracker was beginning to shiver, which could not be a good sign.

Chris sank down in the chair he pulled up beside the cot. Lord, what was taking Buck so long? The whiskey was still calling to him. Chris pressed his palms hard against his aching temples. Coffee. At least the activity would take his mind off the siren song of the bottle. He brewed it up strong and dumped two spoons of sugar in it. The sweetness was cloying to a man who took his coffee black and bitter, but he knew he needed the strength. He stowed the bottle of whiskey in a cupboard, away from temptation. Then he returned to his vigil.

The light faded from late afternoon to the blue shadows of early evening. Chris thought the coming of darkness would somehow veil the damage to Vin's body, make it easier to look at, if not easier to bear. It did neither. A sluggish flow of blood continued from the deeper cuts, soaking through the thin fabric, but Chris was afraid to remove the shirt. Vin was shuddering visibly, despite the fuel Chris had added to the fire, and when he touched Vin's cheek, he could feel the fever rising like a tide in his blood. He put another blanket over Vin's lower body, and went out on the porch. He lit a cheroot and drew the smoke in deep, welcoming the harsh tang at the back of his throat. He was paying the price for the last few days; weak-kneed with too much booze and not enough sleep. He was exhausted from suppressing the fiery knot of rage that was burning in his belly and the fear that sent his pulse into a panicked gallop whenever he looked at Vin.

He'd seen men die in a thousand horrible ways, blasted by shot and shredded by shell, gunned down and mercilessly executed. He'd killed more than a few with so little compunction that it hadn't cost him a night's sleep. It was the way of the gunfighter. Those were quick ways of dyin', though — not that he reckoned it would earn him any mercy from the Almighty at the end of his days. He didn't expect mercy for himself, not from the sort of God who let innocents burn, and allowed the spawn of Satan to beat Vin Tanner to half to death and slice his back to the bone with a whip. Better no God at all than that uncaring monster. Angry at the world, angry at himself, Chris crushed the butt of his cheroot beneath his heel and went back inside.

He looked down at Vin and cursed silently. The tracker was awake. "Hey, partner," he spoke softly, as if he were afraid the force of his voice would cause Tanner pain.

Vin's lashes flickered in recognition. "Chris, I ain't feelin' too good," he whispered.

"I ain't surprised. You look like hell." Chris moved cautiously to sit on the cot. "How about some water ... think you could handle that?"

"Rather have whiskey." Vin's laughter wouldn't have stirred a feather.

"Nathan's on his way. Don't want to give you anything like that 'til he gets here."

"Yer jist afraid I'll drink it all by m'self."

"Well, shoot, after ridin' out after you, I figure I've earned it," Chris joked, trying to speak around the tightness in his throat. "I'm gonna have to move you just a little, Vin. You need to get some water down you. You ready?"

Too weak to nod, and dreading what was coming, Vin closed his eyes and tried not to cry out when Chris turned him slightly on his side. He slipped his hand beneath Vin's head and held a cup of water to his lips. It was awkward, painful to the edge of endurance, but he managed a few swallows before his throat closed up with nauseating pain. "Cain't drink no more, Chris. Sorry"

"Damn it, Tanner! What the hell are you apologizing for?" Chris asked, his weary voice rough with anger. "Who did this to you?"

"Don't know. Shit, they snuck up on me like I was some greenhorn, Chris. Hurts worse than what they done t'me."

"Yeah, must be yer pride that's bleedin' all over my bed."

Vin shivered with laughter. "Shit, Chris. Don't make me laugh. Hurts too damn much."

"As long as you're laughin', you're livin, pard."

Vin stilled beneath Larabee's hand. His eyes opened wide. "Am I gonna die?"

"Not from this, you're not," Chris reassured him. He looked up, alert to the sound of hoofbeats on the path to the house. "Seems like Nathan and Buck are back. You're gonna be fine, Vin. Nathan'll see to that." Lord, let Nathan see to that, he prayed to the God he didn't trust as he went to the door.

* * *

Buck stopped first at Nettie's since it was the closest and JD was there. He'd send the kid after Josiah while he went back to town for Nathan and Ezra. He didn't want to tell Nettie how badly Vin was hurt, but he couldn't see any way around it; Nettie was too sharp, with an uncanny instinct when it came to the tracker — almost like he was blood kin. He'd have to quell her natural instinct to take off after him.

It was nearly dark when he arrived at the Wells' homestead, but the half-moon overhead shed enough light to see by. He knocked on the door and opened it just as Nettie took the knob in her hand. "Buck!" She was startled by his sudden appearance, and the look on his face sent her hand to her throat in alarm. "My Lord, what's wrong?"

Buck worried his hat in his hands. "Nettie, I need to see JD right away."

"JD!" Nettie called over her shoulder then turned her attention to Buck. "Now you tell me what's got you so riled."

Buck's blue eyes were sober as he regarded the small but indomitable woman. "It's Vin. He's hurt bad. I gotta get Nathan out to Chris's real fast."

"I'll come with you —"

"No. Nettie, he's hurt bad, but he ain't near dyin' and he don't need to be worryin' over you ridin' out there in the middle of the night. I swear I'll get word t'you in the mornin'."

Nettie nodded, comprehending the wisdom of Buck's words, but wanting to mount up just the same. She'd lost a son to the war, and there was something about Vin that reminded her of him. She had caught Vin to her heart, and she was frightened that he would be taken from her as cruelly as her own child had been. "I'll hold you to that, Buck Wilmington."

"Hey, Buck —" JD appeared in the hall behind Nettie, with Casey following closely. He held an apple in his hand, and looked so young and carefree that Buck wished he could just walk away and let the boy be a boy. But they owed Vin, all of them.

"JD, we gotta ride. I need you to go get Josiah from the chapel and head on over to Chris's place."

"Why?"

Buck glanced at Casey standing at JD's shoulder. "JD, Vin's in a bad way. I gotta find Nathan and Ezra. Just do as I tell you, son."

"Vin? What happened to him?"

Buck shook his head. "I ain't got time to explain. Sorry, Nettie. Miss Casey —" Buck settled his hat on his head and was out the door. JD handed the apple to Casey and went to get his guns.

* * *

  
Four Corners was quiet that night; unusual, but Buck supposed it was better than riding into a blazing gun battle. He dismounted in front of Nathan's clinic and went up the stairs two at a time. Nathan must have heard him coming because the door opened before he had reached the top step. It didn't take more than one look at Buck's expression for Nathan to guess what was wrong.

"Is it Larabee?" he asked.

"No. Vin. He's out at Chris's. Nathan, we gotta get there fast." Buck took a deep breath. "I'm gonna find Ezra. Meet you at the livery."

"Buck — why d' you need all of us?"

"When you see Vin, you'll understand." He turned on his boot heel before Nathan could question that enigmatic response.

Ezra was holding court at his usual table at the Standish Tavern. Buck made a quick inventory of the gambler's chosen victims and decided between the three of them, they didn't have enough cash to stay in the game for long. He strode in, positioned himself behind Ezra and looked at his hand. Hardly worth a pot to piss in. He laid a big hand on Ezra's shoulder and bent close. "Ez, put down the cards and come with me. It's important."

Ezra shrugged his shoulder irritably. "Mr. Wilmington, poker is an honorable game, and I do not take it lightly —"

"How lightly do you take Vin's life?" Buck hissed.

Ezra looked at Buck's grim face, and knew that this was not a matter that could be finessed. The gambler set his cards down abruptly. "Gentlemen, sorry to end this promisin' hand, but alas, as one of the town's peacekeepers, it is my duty to heed the call of my fellow lawmen." He rose gracefully and bowed. "Feel free to play on without me."

Buck's grip was urgent on Ezra's elbow. "Got your guns?"

"At my fingertips, Mr. Wilmington. Might I ask where we are going?"

"To Chris's. We ain't got time fer chattin', Ez. Nathan's waiting at the livery."

"Are Mr. Jackson's services as a physician required?" Ezra asked soberly.

"Yeah, they are." The gravity in his voice was painful and Ezra's stomach curled unpleasantly. He did not consider himself a man of great physical courage, despite his mental toughness, but he knew if Buck was this deadly serious, then the tracker was in a world of trouble.

* * *

Nathan knew as soon as he saw Vin's back, what he was dealing with. He'd seen men whipped before, a few worse than Tanner who had lived, and more than a few who had died from it. The sight raised sick memories in the former slave, but at least he knew how to treat those injuries. The whipping was bad, but it was the beating and the tracker's rising fever that were more of a worry to Nathan.

"Has he been able to drink anything?" he asked Chris.

"A few swallows of water, nothing else."

Nathan folded his arms and considered his patient. Vin's respiration was light and fast, and though his eyes were closed, he suspected that the tracker was conscious and in severe pain. He bent close. "Vin, c'n ya hear me?"

"If y'all would quit whisperin' I'd hear ya better," Vin managed to breathe.

"I'm gonna give you some laudanum — ain't no use arguin' with me, Vin. I cain't do what needs t'be done if you're twitchin' around." That the tracker didn't argue was another worry. Nathan mixed up a draught of laudanum and water and patiently spooned it down Vin's throat, pausing when his stomach fought against the bitter drug, until the entire dose was down and likely to stay down. He waited until Tanner's breathing deepened and slowed, and his eyes closed. It wasn't a deep sleep, but it was enough to allow Nathan to start his examination.

He cast a sidelong glance at Larabee. The man was about as played out as the healer had ever seen him. His sharp features were as hard-edged as a knife; his eyes deeply shadowed, his skin drawn over his fine bones. "You don't have to watch this, Chris," Nathan suggested.

"I ain't leavin' him."

Buck moved in on the argument. "Partner, it ain't doin' you or him any good."

Chris's eyes turned hard as flint. "I said I'd stay."

Buck retreated to the table where Ezra sat nervously shuffling a deck of cards. The gambler had been silent since the first glimpse he'd had of Vin's body. He looked up at Wilmington. "Would you care to play a hand?"

"How can you think of poker at a time like this?"

"It's at a time like this that I find it most soothin'. It keeps me from dwellin' on the incomprehensible savagery man is capable of inflictin' on a fellow human being." The cards flew through his hands with a snap and a ruffle, betraying the taut rage that the gambler was fighting to contain.

Vin made a sound that twisted like a knife in Buck's gut. "Deal." he said.

* * *

Nathan had the healer's gift of detachment. Vin was a friend, and Nathan felt the same anger as Chris and Buck at the sight of his ravaged flesh, but once he touched him, every thought but how to treat those wounds was driven from his mind. He focused on his patient and went to work.

He gently probed Vin's narrow ribcage. Didn't like what he felt; at least two ribs broken and others likely cracked. He pressed on his abdomen, seeking swelling that might indicate internal injuries, and was relieved that there were no ruptures beneath the bruises, . He knew that he did not have the skill to be certain that Vin wasn't bleeding inside, but judging from the tracker's color and temperature, he was not hemorrhaging. He examined the sheets under Vin's body to see if he had passed blood; there was not more than he had expected to find given the extent of the bruises around his kidneys. The bruise and swelling along Vin's spine had Nathan worried about the possibilities of a fracture at the site, but since the tracker was able to move his limbs, Nathan put that concern at the back of his mind. He'd make sure that Vin didn't thrash around too much for a few days. He straightened and breathed a deep sigh.

"What's wrong?" Chris asked.

"Plenty. Man's been worked over with every intention of killing him — and they came damn close. But the good news is that there ain't anything wrong that could kill him outright — not that I kin tell by what I know, anyways."

"Not kill him outright?" Chris raised a brow. "But kill him, nonetheless."

"Hell, Chris. Look at the man's back! I kin clean and stitch and bind, but there ain't no way I kin get all the dirt outta those cuts. He's runnin' a fever already. I don't know what kind of poisons he's got in his blood." When Chris turned away in a vain attempt to hide his expression, Nathan reached out to him. "I'll do my best, Chris. He saved my life, an' I swear I won't give up on him without a fight."

"What can I do to help?" Chris asked.

"I got carbolic in my bag, but I'm gonna need boilin' water and bandages. And I sure could use a cup of coffee."

"Whiskey?" Chris asked with faint amusement.

Nathan shook his head. "Not now, but Lord, when I'm done ..."

When he was ready, Nathan asked for all the lanterns Chris could gather to be lit, and set to work on Vin's back. It was painstaking, tedious labor, and more than once, he had to pause to wipe the sweat that streamed down his face. He cleaned and swabbed the gashes with carbolic, sewing the deeper ones with tiny, meticulous stitches, then applied bandages smeared with comfrey ointment. Chris watched, sickened but fascinated. Ezra and Buck drifted over, appalled at the damage, but awed by Nathan's careful skill. Finally, when he was satisfied with his efforts, he wound long strips of cloth around Vin's torso, securing both the bandages and binding his cracked and broken ribs to prevent them from shifting and puncturing his lungs.

He looked up at Chris. "I done all I kin do for now." He looked at the bloody rags at his feet. "Sorry about the mess ..." He stood up, his hands feeling heavy and swollen, and swayed with weariness. Buck instantly shored him up with a broad shoulder.

"C'mon, Nate. I think you've earned that whiskey."

When Josiah and JD arrived, Nathan was seated at the table eating a plate of beans and bacon that Buck had cooked up. Across the table from him, Ezra was playing solitaire, and Chris had returned to his vigil at Vin's bedside.

JD, whose considerable imagination had envisioned all sorts of dire scenarios, was taken aback by the homey scene, and felt mighty pissed at Buck for having stirred up all his panic and worry. He was full of the impetuous optimism of youth and about to make a sassy comment, when he felt Josiah's hand fall heavy on his shoulder.

"Don't say it, son," he said softly. "Look at their faces."

JD did. His heart plummeted to his boots. He stepped inside. "Are we too late? Is Vin ...?" He could not say the word.

Buck came up to him. "No. He's alright, kid. Fer now."

"Sorry it took us so long," Josiah spoke from the doorway. "But it was my fault for going off on my own, and away from the chapel. JD did a fine job of trackin' me down."

"Vin's been teachin' me," JD whispered. He tried to see around Buck's broad shoulders to the bed where Vin lay.

Buck nodded. "Glad you're here, Josiah. Maybe you kin get Larabee t'see the sense in gettin' some rest."

"What happened to Vin?"

Buck sighed. "We ain't exactly sure. Vin hasn't been able to tell us much. But Chris found him beaten near t'death. The bastard took a whip to him, flayed him clear to the bone."

"God damn," Josiah breathed, and pushed Buck out of his way. JD had gone white, but he shrugged off Buck's restraining arm to follow Josiah to Vin's bedside. He was the first to admit that he had a case of hero-worship for the tracker. When he had first come to Four Corners, Vin and Chris had embodied everything that JD imagined the West to be — free, brave, exotic, adventurous, deadly. He'd been brought to earth with a hard jolt by Chris Larabee, but Vin had never been anything but patient with him, teaching him to track, how to survive in the wilderness, how to be a man in this country that had broken so many.

Seeing Vin lying there, stripped and vulnerable, shook JD. Because Vin seemed larger than life to him, JD had never realized how slight the tracker was; spare and lean, bone and muscle close to the skin. The whip wouldn't have had to cut through much flesh to reach bone. He turned away quickly, ashamed of the tears that sprang to his eyes. He looked at Buck and took off out the door.

The night air was cold on his wet cheeks, and JD leaned his forearm against a post and struggled against his tears. He couldn't let the others see him like this. It was shameful. He heard footsteps behind him and quickly wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

"It's okay, kid," Buck soothed. "I reckon we all feel like that — jist too proud to let it out."

JD sniffed and gave his eyes another swipe. "Who'd do something like that, Buck? Hurt a man like that and leave him t'die?"

"There's a lot of evil men in this world, JD — and Vin's had a part in gettin' a lot of 'em behind bars. Was only a matter of time b'fore one of 'em decided to take somethin' back."

"But Vin caught 'em fair —"

Buck heaved a sigh. "Vin Tanner's an upright man, JD. But he ain't got a halo around that long-haired head of his — and you well know that, by now." He hoped the kid understood. JD was too young to comprehend what even decent men were capable of when pushed beyond endurance. Anyone who had lived through the war had stories that would curdle the blood, and Vin, though not much older than JD in years, had a soul that knew that hell intimately.

"C'mon inside, JD. Git some food in yer belly and catch some sleep."

"Chris is gonna go after them, isn't he?"

"We're riding out at dawn."

"I'm going with you — ain't no use trying to argue me out of it, Buck."

"I wasn't going to, JD." He laid a warm, comforting arm around his shoulders, and they joined the others. There was a solemn resolve in their gathering; they ate in silence, then one by one, took turns watching over Vin.

* * *

It was Josiah's watch in the dark middle of that night. He had taken it gladly, grateful for the silence that allowed him to think. The others were sleeping; even Larabee had finally acknowledged that he was worn to the bone and had stretched out on the floor near Vin's bed. Buck and JD were bunked down in Chris's stable, and Ezra was curled up near the hearth. Nathan snored gently a few feet away — his had been the last watch, and before he had lain down, he had checked Vin over and seemed more or less satisfied by the tracker's condition. He had cautioned Josiah to keep an eye out for signs of delirium or intense pain; in either case, he should be awakened immediately.

Josiah studied Tanner's face for signs of distress or returning consciousness. He thought he had noticed a shift in his respiration, as if he were rousing from the laudanum induced slumber to a lighter, more natural sleep. He reached over and touched the tracker's forehead. Too warm and dry. Josiah shook his head. _Lord, if you have any mercy, you will let this cup pass from this man,_ he prayed. _Brother Tanner has done a powerful lot of sufferin' in his life, and he don't deserve this._ And because he thought if Vin knew any prayers, it was likely to be the one Christ had spoken to his father, he began murmuring the Lord's Prayer, in a deep, comforting, rumble.

Through the interweaving threads of pain, fever, thirst, and drugs, Vin's mind latched on to that voice; held to it tight like it was a lifeline. He followed it, tenuous but true, and suddenly, like breaking the surface of a dark lake to emerge into the light, he gasped and opened his eyes. Pain enveloped him; no longer sharp and stabbing as it had been, but an ache that burdened his entire body. His back was stiff and tight, and he felt the tug of sutures, the sting of newly formed scabs, and the deep, cramping ache of swollen muscles. It hurt to breathe. All reason screamed to him to be still, so he lay quietly as if his life depended on it. The voice continued; Vin listened to it until the words ran out before he spoke.

"J'siah?"

The preacher's long-jawed face swam into focus over him. "Brother Tanner, welcome back to the land of the living."

Vin gave a soft huff of laughter. "Sure don't feel like it."

"How do you feel?"

"Like I been trampled by a herd a' buffalo."

Josiah smiled. "Ain't too far from the truth, Vin. Lie still there, and I'll get Nathan —"

"I jist want some water, Josiah. N'then I'll be alright. Never wanted t'be so much bother."

Josiah poured a cup of water and with the gentle touch so many big men seemed to have, raised Vin against his shoulder, careful not to disturb Nathan's bandaging or put pressure on the tracker's wounds. Even so, Vin could not suppress the hitch of a sob that rose in his throat, and it was several minutes before he could manage to sip some of the water. It went down easily, cool and sweet-tasting. Vin drained the cup and relaxed against the curve of Josiah's body. Pain made a man feel mighty small and lonesome, and that warmth of flesh and bone, breath and heartbeat was like a safe harbor. With a sigh, he sank down into those calm, healing waters.

Josiah felt the tension leaving Vin's body and looked over the hunch of the tracker's shoulder to see his face. Pale beneath the flush of fever and the growth of beard, shadowed and sharp in the flickering firelight, but peaceful. Josiah reckoned any discomfort he felt was off-set by the serenity of that rest. He shifted his weight to cushion Vin more comfortably, and settled down to his own sleep.

* * *

It wasn't the light of dawn that woke Chris, but an ingrained awareness of the passage of time. He had learned during the war to sleep for an hour or two and wake exactly when he would be needed. He was surprised however, that he had slept at all, for he had agreed to rest begrudgingly and had not expected to be pulled down so deeply and completely as he had been. He levered himself upright with unnecessary caution, and pushed back the straight blond hair that fell over his forehead. All around him, he heard the heavy breathing of his sleeping companions. The windows weren't even showing grey, yet. Another half-hour, he thought. He'd let them rest for that long.

Vin.

He turned to the cot where Josiah was laying half-reclined against the wall, with Tanner cradled against his broad chest. The big man looked highly uncomfortable wedged in there, but he opened one eye and gave Chris a slow smile. Neither man spoke, but the understanding that Vin was all right gave the gunslinger a moment of joy before the slow rage he had been fighting to hold at bay surged once more. He'd leave the healing to Nathan and Josiah; he wanted to hunt — to find the man who had done harm to Vin and make him pay with pain and blood.

Josiah saw the shift in Larabee's eyes. All that made him a Christian man recognized the sin of revenge, but he could not chastise Chris Larabee for being set on taking it. He looked up at the gunslinger and nodded once.

Chris's smile would have made the devil shiver. "I don't need absolution, Josiah," he said. "One more sin ain't gonna make a difference on my soul."

"It wasn't absolution, brother. It was my blessing." He looked down at Vin and his face grew tight with anger. "You find him, Chris."

"I will."

One by one, the others woke. They ate and drank, talking quietly to each other, careful of disturbing Vin's sleep. Nathan and Josiah would stay behind at the shack to care for the tracker; the others were grim-faced and stern as they prepared for the manhunt. Chris knew every stone within five miles of his land and would start tracking from the point where he had found Vin. He had a pretty good notion of where Tanner had made camp — it was the only spot nearby with decent grass and a small spring — necessities for both a man and his horse. Chris pulled out a plat map he had drawn up, and together he and Buck marked out territories. When he had finished, he looked up at JD.

"I want you with Buck, JD. Me 'n Ezra will start out at Vin's camp and go east, you and Buck will go west and south. I'd be willing to bet that whoever did this wouldn't go towards Four Corners — he'd know if he did, he'd be runnin' into one or the other of us."

"It's been twenty-four hours," JD said. "He could be miles gone by now."

"He could be, but would you rather do nothing?" Chris asked. "Or do you want to take a chance and find that bastard?"

No one needed to voice an answer. Chris turned to Nathan. "How is he?"

"Still got a fever, but he's restin' easier than I expected. Swellin's gone down quite a bit." Nathan shook his head wonderingly. "He ain't much more 'n grit and gristle, but he's holdin' his own."

Chris smiled at that description. "Take care of him, Nathan." He looked to Josiah, who had managed to slip out of the cot without waking Vin. "You too, Josiah." He buckled on his gunbelt, feeling it settle on his hips like it was a part of him. "Let's ride."

* * *

They found Vin's campsite where Chris had said it would be — they would have found it easily enough from the place where he had discovered Vin — by following Peso's tracks and the dark splotches of blood that had fallen on the stones. It was an appalling amount of blood for one man to lose, and each drop that Chris Larabee found, he added like a bead onto his rosary of anger. When they reached the campsite, Chris dismounted; the others following him, treading carefully so as not to disturb any tells that would point to Vin's attacker.

JD watched the gunslinger with wide eyes. Chris was looking down at four stakes that had been driven into the ground. Rawhide strips had been tied around them, and those strips were stiff with dried blood. JD thought of the raw bracelets of flesh encircling Vin's wrists and made a sound in his throat that sent Buck to his side in an instant.

"You okay there, kid?"

JD swallowed hard. "Yeah. Sure. I seen worse things." But his voice sounded woefully young and uncertain to Wilmington.

Bravado, Buck thought. Sure, he'd seen worse things himself, but the vision of Vin staked out and whipped bloody had to be in the boy's mind, as it was in his own. Larabee bent and tugged one of the strips free, holding it in his hand and staring at it. Buck gave JD's shoulder an encouraging squeeze. "Why don't you take a walk around the perimeter?" he suggested. When JD nodded gratefully, Buck went to Chris's side.

"Chris?" he queried, wondering if Larabee was listening to anything but the beating of his own heart. Chris's fist clenched hard around the rawhide and with a foul epithet, he flung it to the ground and stalked away. Buck followed. "Are you gonna talk to me, or just let everything all fester inside of you?"

Chris rounded on him, eyes ablaze, every fiber of his body taut with anger. "What the fucking good is that gonna do, Buck? Is it gonna take away one second of Vin's suffering? Is it gonna make this go away?" He gestured to the stakes. "When I close my eyes will it stop me from seeing what went on here?"

"No." Buck met his gaze steadily. "But it might help you see what you need to see, and not what you're lookin' at in yer mind right now, Chris. You think I don't see the same things that you're seein'? That JD is seein'? But that ain't gonna help find the sonofabitch who did this to Vin."

Chris drew a deep, shuddering breath as he realized the truth and the sense in Buck's words. The heat of his anger died to a cold, abiding hate that he used to focus on the details of the scene as dispassionately as if he had never known Vin Tanner. He paced the area. There was no indication that more than one man had been involved. Peso's saddle and bridle were gone, but Vin's bedroll was where he had left it. Chris gathered it together and lashed it to his saddle.

Ezra returned from his own perusal of the site, and approached Chris hesitantly. He was holding what looked like a bundle of rags in his arms. "Mr. Tanner's shirt, and bandanna. Apparently, they were not to the taste of his captor."

Chris took the dusty calico from Ezra. The shirt was in tatters and Chris let it fall to the ground. He studied the crumpled bandanna in his hand. "Thanks, Ezra."

"It seems, Mr. Larabee, that he retained a number of possessions, includin' Mr. Tanner's spyglass, which might have some value — and that gawd-awful harmonica that he seems to treasure. His rifle is missin' as well. If we cannot apprehend the culprit out here, there is a possibility that he might try to profit by selling those items in the nearest town."

Chris had his reservations about the gambler, but there was no doubting the acuity of his mind. The man's thought processes were as nimble as his fingers at the cards. "That's mighty sharp of you, Ezra."

Ezra grinned crookedly, flashing his gold incisor. "It takes a scoundrel to know a scoundrel, Mr. Larabee." Chris grinned back, thinking that if he weren't careful, he'd end up liking the gambler, which would make life considerably less interesting.

Buck had wandered over in time to hear Ezra's report, and figured that Standish was right. "How about Vin's jacket and hat? You find those?"

"No." Ezra said flatly. Too flatly, Chris thought. Standish's handsome face was suddenly still and hard as Chris's own.

"What are you thinking, Ezra?" he asked.

Green eyes met, and Ezra did not blink. "He's takin' trophies, Mr. Larabee. Things that are associated closely with Mr. Tanner — that carry a physical presence. Like a scalp."

"Shit." Chris's stomach roiled. He turned and walked rapidly away from the others, feeling a sheen of sweat break out on his forehead. Ezra's statement had raised the motive behind Vin's attack from cruelty to utter malevolence. They had to find the bastard now.

JD came running into that grim camp, breathless and fit to burst with his news. "I've found it! The way he went ... left tracks as clear as day!"

"You sure about that?" Buck asked quietly, because there was so much at stake.

JD nodded impatiently. "I ain't blind, Buck. I've been learnin' from Vin. But it don't take someone with eyes like his t'follow a horse with a notch in his shoe."

JD's scorn made Buck smile, and even Chris's mouth twitched at the kid's youthful certainty. He tilted his head at Buck. "Well, it's as good a lead as any I c'n figure. Good work, son."

JD blushed at the praise, and recalled with shame the time he had lashed out at Chris for calling him son. Now he heard it with pride. He was one of the Seven, he was Vin's friend, and if nothing else, he had contributed to the cause they shared. "Then let's go!"

"I reckon we're all followin' you, JD," Buck said with a touch to his hat.

Chris realized he was still holding Vin's bandanna. He started to tuck it into the bedroll, then hesitated for a moment before he looped it around his own throat. _This is for you, partner,_ he promised.

* * *

Nathan Jackson was an instinctive healer, relying on his senses for clues to his patients' welfare, much as Vin Tanner relied on his senses to find and follow a trail. Those instincts told Jackson that Tanner was healing; but he knew how tenuous that progress was, how easily a fever could spike, or a wound turn septic. Vin had roused about an hour ago, long enough to drink another cup of water before he slept again. Nathan was grateful that he had managed that much; Vin needed to compensate for his blood loss and the fluids his fever was burning away. Nathan would have liked to have gotten some nourishment down him, too. He hadn't been far off when he had told Chris that the tracker was down to grit and gristle.

He sighed and went over to the cot. It was near time to change Vin's dressings, and Nathan dreaded that task. The former slave had scars on his own back, and the getting and the healing of them was not something he cared to think on. Every time he touched Vin, his own scars throbbed with sympathetic pain. Before he faced that unpleasant duty, he'd let Tanner rest for a while yet.

It was warm in the shack with the sun coming full through the windows, and Nathan turned the blankets back from Tanner's body. Wasn't no one there to see him and the air would dry the shallow wounds that had not been bandaged.

He wondered when Josiah would return from Nettie's. Buck had made Josiah promise to tell her and Casey how Vin was faring, and knowing the old woman, she would be questioning the preacher minutely. Nathan had warned Josiah to be circumspect but honest. He didn't want Nettie charging over here ...

The rattle and clatter of a wagon interrupted Nathan's thoughts, and he wondered who had come out here to Larabee's place in such an all fired hurry. Most folks knew better than to show up unexpected; being likely to end up chased off the property by a piece of hot lead. He went to the window and cursed. Miz Wells. Damn Josiah, anyway. He jerked the door open as Nettie descended nimbly from the buckboard. Josiah rode in behind her, hard pressed to keep up. He gave Nathan an apologetic shrug — Lord knows, he had tried to hold her back. Might as well try harnessing a whirlwind.

"You cain't come in here, Miz Wells," Nathan said. "Vin ain't decent."

Nettie looked up at the healer and gave a crow of laughter. "Nathan Jackson, I'd be willin' ta bet I've seen more men buck nekkid than you in my years." When Nathan tried to stammer out an objection, Nettie put her hands on her hips. "Then cover him, 'cause I didn't come all this way not to see how he's doin' with my own eyes."

She was up the steps and inside as Nathan twitched the blanket over Vin's buttocks. He left his back uncovered. No use hiding what had happened from Nettie; she was unflinching in her determination and had seen enough in her years to stand up to reality.

"Oh, my Lord ..." Nettie whispered. Josiah had warned her what to expect, but she hadn't figured in the effect it would have on her heart. She touched Vin's forehead, trailed her fingers gently down his hollow cheeks and across the angle of his jaw. "He's got a fever, Nathan ... but I reckon you know that," she sighed. A motherly hand lifted the hair at the nape of his neck, feeling the moist warmth of his skin. She forced her gaze to travel down the length of his back, and Nathan saw her shoulders stiffen as she realized the extent of the brutality done to him. There were tears glistening on her seamed cheeks when she turned back to the healer. "Chris n'the others have gone after the ... the creature who done this?"

"Yeah."

"Good." For a moment her face wore a look as cold and as hard as Nathan had ever seen. Her chin came up. "I brought some broth over, and some milk custard. Knowin' Larabee, he ain't got the sort of food this boy is gonna need when he's up to eatin'."

"Thank you, Nettie. I's hopin' you'd do that."

"And some fresh bread and a butt of ham over fer you an' Josiah. And nice clean linens fer the bed." She gave him an amused, measuring, look. "You c'n pull back that blanket and cover him with a sheet — don't reckon he needs t'be warmer than he already is." She strode out of the shack, leaving Nathan shaking his head. Women. Lord, but he was glad in his heart to see her.

Vin woke to the scent of frying ham and the rich aroma of baking biscuits. For a moment, he forgot about how much he was hurting and puzzled, wondered where he was. He didn't think he'd been so far gone that he'd forgotten he was at Chris's ranch. Sure wouldn't be like Larabee to be cooking up ham and biscuits. He felt a smile curl at the corner of his mouth, and he opened his eyes. Nettie Wells was sitting in the chair by his bed, her hands busy with mending one of Chris's shirts.

"Hey," he said weakly.

Nettie set her mending down. "Vin Tanner, you sure know how to land yerself in a heap o' trouble." Her tender expression took all the tartness out of her words. "How are you feelin' son?"

"I ain't gonna lie, Nettie. I been better. Ever'thin' hurts."

The breathless tone of his voice betrayed him, and Nettie's heart shivered in her breast. "I'll git Nathan fer you."

"Hell, he'll jist want ta hurt me worse." His eyes glinted with humor that eased some of her fears. He was going to be all right, Nettie told herself.

"I won't let him, son." She passed a light hand over his hair. "N'if he does, I'll take back them biscuits I just baked."

"You got some honey t'go with them biscuits?" he asked.

She tried to frown; tried and failed to hide her emotions. "Got some broth fer you, Vin Tanner. We'll talk about the biscuits later." She bent quickly and kissed his forehead. Too warm, she thought. But perhaps a bit less than he had been earlier.

* * *

The day wore on, the sun traveled to its zenith and beyond. The four weary and dusty men followed the trail relentlessly, stopping only when it was necessary to rest the horses and fill their canteens. Chris had hoped they would find their prey quickly and make an end one way or another to the pursuit. He tried to stay focused on the trail, thinking of those notched markers that JD was reading, but found his mind going back to his shack, to Vin. Judging from the somber looks on the faces of his companions, their thoughts were similarly occupied.

Ezra reined in beside Chris and shaded his eyes from the lowering rays of the sun. "Have you considered the advantages of splittin' up, Mr. Larabee?"

"We've got the trail in our sights, Ezra."

"Well, I'd be willin' to ride on ahead. If I'm right in my figurin', we are not far from the nearest town. If I were the man in question, I'd be thinkin' of gettin' rid of Mr. Tanner's personal effects and out of the general area of Four Corners while my hide was still intact."

Chris winced at Ezra's choice of words, but the logic of the suggestion was unarguable. "Buck, JD, hold up!" he called out to them. When he and Ezra caught up, Chris explained Ezra's suggestion.

Buck leaned forward, arms crossed over the horn of his saddle. "Might be a wild goose chase, Ezra."

"It also might cut down our time spent eatin' dust," Chris said quietly. "I want this over with so we can go back and give Vin some peace."

JD's hazel eyes widened. "You don't think — I mean — Vin ain't gonna ... Nathan'll take care of him, won't he, Buck?"

"Sure, he will," Buck reassured him, and gave Chris a hard-eyed look. "But the longer we're away, the rougher it is on all of us. You want some company there, Ezra?"

"I think that might be a prudent idea, Mr. Wilmington. If Mr. Larabee agrees, that is?"

Chris rubbed his aching eyes. "JD and I 'll keep following the trail until dark. Figure we'll make camp about a mile west of town. Buck, you find anything, I want t' know about it. You understand?"

"You want your piece of flesh, Chris?" Buck asked.

"Damn right."

JD felt a shudder run clear up and down his spine. There were times when Larabee was just about the scariest thing he'd ever seen; and the months of their acquaintance had not blunted that impression. Yet he had seen him laughing with Mary Travis, exchanging an occasional ribald jest with Buck, sitting at ease with Vin; then something would turn in his eyes, and JD knew the killer was back. It was the killer looking out of Chris's eyes now, and JD wasn't sure he wanted to be alone with Larabee and his demons.

"I-I could go," he suggested diffidently.

Buck shook his head. "I don't think so, JD. Ezra n' me ... well, being Southern boys and all, we kin jist mosey in and out real easy. You go ridin' in there eager as a pup, and that place'll close down mighty fast."

"I ain't a kid, Buck."

"Never said you was, JD. But you sure as heck look too innocent fer the sort of work me'n Ezra are gonna have ta do." He said it so gently that any reply JD could make would sound like a spoiled child being denied his way.

"I need you with me, JD." Chris spoke to him, and JD met his eyes. The killer was gone, and only the troubled friend looked out at him.

"Sure, Chris. We'll keep goin' until we can't see no more."

Ezra and Buck put their spurs to their mounts and headed west. Chris allowed himself and JD fifteen minutes of rest, before they too, mounted up and continued on their way.

 **[Continued](http://lalibrary.net/m7/stories/ow/a-f/bloodtrail02.html)**

* * *

[Home](http://lalibrary.net/m7/index.html)  |  [Part One](http://lalibrary.net/m7/stories/ow/a-f/bloodtrail01.html)  |  [Part Two](http://lalibrary.net/m7/stories/ow/a-f/bloodtrail02.html)

* * *

Feedback to [Author](mailto:jcurtin_29@yahoo.com)

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to my beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and Sue B. Sue N., this one's for you.

# Blood Trail

  


## by [Joan Curtin](mailto:jcurtin_29@yahoo.com)  


 **RATING:** PG13 with cautions for language and violence.

 **FEEDBACK:** Yes, please

 **DISCLAIMER:** This is a work of fiction based on the characters of the CBS series, The Magnificent Seven. I don't own 'em, I can't claim 'em, and I'm sure not making money off of 'em.

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** My thanks to my beta-readers, Sarah B., Sara (Dutch), and Sue B. Sue N., this one's for you.

* * *

  


### Part 2

The town was called Blue Springs, which Ezra thought was highly optimistic. He didn't see any springs, and if he had, he would have bet his last dollar that they would not be blue, but the same miserable clay color as the dirt streets. Compared to Blue Springs, Four Corners was a thriving metropolis. But there was a saloon, and with a quick glance of agreement, he and Buck headed over to it, knowing that it was the most likely source of information about the town and who had been passing through.

As they entered, Ezra's sharp eyes swept the room, taking stock of the number of tables, and the number of poker games in progress. Eight tables, three games. A tinny piano sounded from the corner. Ezra thought if he heard _Oh, Dem Golden Slippers,_ one more time, he'd puke. A most tiresome ditty.

Buck nudged him in the ribs. "Shall we belly up to the bar?"

"We have to start somewhere," Ezra agreed. "I've always found that a libation liberates the tongues of most men."

Buck laughed silently. "Ezra, there are times when I sure wish you spoke plain, like other folks."

"My mother would be appalled at such a waste of my education." His eyes continued to scan the poker tables. He heard Buck order two whiskies and reached for his glass. Two of the games in progress seemed to be penny-ante between cowboys; genial and familiar with each other. The third had all the marks of higher stakes and less friendly opponents. Two of the men wore black broadcloth suits, the third was a Mexican with silver rings on his hands, the fourth, a grizzled man who was playing out of his depth. A miner, perhaps, with a small claim. Ezra edged closer to the game, only half listening to Buck flirt with one of the saloon girls.

The game wasn't going well for the miner — Ezra recognized the slightly dazed look on his face as the other player made their bets. The pot grew, and the miner reached into his jacket and laid something down on the table. Ezra's view was partially blocked, but he had caught a flash of brass that made his breath catch in his throat. He moved to the end of the bar, half-hoping that he had been wrong. He wasn't. One of the suited men raised the telescope to his eye, and Ezra set his glass down hard enough to make Buck look up in surprise. Ezra inclined his head and Buck gasped. "Jesus!"

He started to move towards the table, but Ezra clamped his fingers hard around his arm. "My friend, chargin' in all hot and bothered, is not the answer. Let me handle this. Trust me." He held Buck's gaze until he nodded in agreement. "You might want to keep your gun handy, Mr. Wilmington."

Ezra sauntered over to the table. "If you will pardon me, gentlemen. I couldn't help noticin' that spyglass that you are examinin'. I have an interest in fine instruments such as that, and I was wonderin' if I might have a closer look?"

"Be my guest." The man extended it to Ezra. "But it is part of our wager in this game."

"Of course." Ezra looked at the telescope. He'd seen it in Vin's hands a hundred times, it might still be warm from his touch ... "Where did you come across such a piece out here?"

"Ask Mr. Dobbs —" he gestured to the miner. "It's his stake."

The grizzled miner nodded. "That's right. It is mine."

"Really? And how did you come to posses it?" Ezra hoped his voice wasn't as hard as it sounded to his own ears.

The miner gave him a suspicious look. "Don't see that's none of your business."

Buck's big hand came down over the man's shoulder. "What the gentleman is tryin' to say, is that spyglass belongs to a friend of ours, and we'd be mighty interested in knowin' why you're claimin' it to be yours."

"I brought it fair and square from a feller this morning," the miner said indignantly. "I never stole it from nobody."

"Now, I never said I thought you _stole_ it, did I?" Buck said with soft menace. "But I have a particular need t'find the man you brought it from."

"I dunno who he was. He was tryin' t'peddle it, along with some other stuff at the General Store. I jist happened on it. I swear it."

"What did the man look like?" Ezra asked.

"Tall, dark-haired. Mean-faced. Dark clothes, too. Rode a buckskin-colored gelding. I swear that's all I kin recall."

Buck straightened slowly. "You reckon that man is still in town?"

"How the hell should I know? Hey!" he objected as Ezra closed the spyglass and stowed it in his pocket. "I paid five bucks fer that!"

Erza pulled out a gold piece and set it on the table. "I trust that will cover your investment, suh. And if I were you, I'd retire from this game." He tipped his hat. "Good evening, gentlemen. Senor. It's been a pleasure doin' business with you."

He and Buck strolled out of the saloon. When they were outside and beyond sight and hearing of the saloon, they paused. Buck drew a deep breath. "Care to mosey on down to the livery?"

"I think that might prove enlightening. But if the horse in question is there, what do we do, then?"

"Ride back and git Larabee."

"God have mercy," Ezra sighed. "Mr. Larabee surely won't."

"The bastard who done that t'Vin don't deserve no mercy from either one." Buck replied. "C'mon, Ezra. Time's runnin' short."

The livery stable was quiet, the attendant scarcely nodded at them when they entered. Buck walked down one row of stalls, Ezra the other. Buck halted at the end of the row. "Ezra," he whispered, his voice rough. "Git over here."

"Oh, my Lord." The gambler and the gunman stood at the last stall. A rangy buckskin gelding was munching on the hay, and the saddle hung over the wall was Vin's. Buck reached over the saddle, and untied the bundle lashed on the back of it. He shook it out, and a fringed jacket tumbled to his feet.

"God damn! We got the bastard." He unbuckled the saddlebags and rifled through the contents. "We got him dead t'rights!" He opened his hand. Vin's harmonica reflected the lantern light. He picked up the gelding's off-fore, the one JD said was notched, and gave a muted but triumphant whoop. His eyes burned into Ezra's. "We gotta get to Chris."

"One of us should stay here to insure that our quarry doesn't suddenly take flight. I'd hate to lose him before Mr. Larabee can greet him properly." The gambler's soft voice sounded as deadly as Chris's. He leaned against a stack of hay bales. "If you would persuade that young man to bring in my horse, and give him this ..." He flipped a coin over to Buck. "To allow me to take my rest here?"

Buck snatched the coin from the air. "Do me a favor, Ezra?"

"I might." The light glinted in his eyes.

"If the bastard shows up, make sure you take him alive."

"It will be an unholy pleasure, Mr. Wilmington." He watched Buck out the door, then settled himself comfortably. It would be a long night, but for once, Ezra knew he would not be tempted to sleep.

* * *

Josiah dozed in the chair set by Vin's bed. It was too small for his large body, but he was weary enough to sleep on a bed of nails. He'd sent Nathan off to escort Nettie home an hour ago. Even though she wanted to be close to Vin, she didn't want Casey spending the night alone, and Josiah had insisted she go to her niece. It was enough that she'd helped Nathan change the bandages on Vin's back. That alone would take the starch out of a body, even one as tough as Nettie's. Lord, it had shaken him, and left Vin exhausted and immobile for the last several hours. Josiah shifted uncomfortably and opened his eyes to find Tanner awake and watching him.

"Can I get you something, brother?" When Vin didn't answer, Josiah figured there were things the reticent tracker wouldn't ask, and he took care of those needs for him, silently and efficiently. When he had finished, he heated up a mug of broth and carried it over to the bed.

"Feel like havin' some of this?" he asked.

"I reckon."

Josiah cushioned Vin with the blankets and pillows that Nettie had brought with her, propping him upright and slightly on his side to put as little pressure as possible on his back and ribs. He was gratified to feel the lessening of the fever in Vin's body, and the tracker's eyes were clearer than they had been in a long time. When the broth was gone, Josiah took the mug from him. "You want to lay back down?"

Vin shook his head. "I done enough sleepin,' Josiah. I'll jist ..." he sighed. "... sit here fer a while, if y'don't mind?"

Josiah smiled at Tanner's ingrained courtesy. The boy's mamma might have died when he was five, but she had set that much in him. He returned to his chair and picked up the Bible he had put aside earlier. "I'd be grateful for the company."

For a while, the only sounds in the room came from the fire and the night noises drifting in on a light breeze through the open windows. There had been questions gnawing at Vin's mind, even through the pain and fever; questions that wanted answering, and that he was afraid to ask. But he'd never been a coward, and he reckoned that was one thing he could take comfort from.

"Josiah, did Chris and the others go after who done this?" Reluctance slowed his voice.

Josiah gave him a considering look. "Did you expect them not to?"

"No, I jist wish they hadn't, that's all."

"Why, brother? Surely you want that monster brought to justice?" Josiah frowned at him from beneath his heavy brows. Vin's eyes came up to meet his, very blue and shadowed with pain.

"Been thinkin' about it all, n' I ain't so sure I wanta know."

Josiah leaned forward in his chair, his big hands closed over the Bible. "Why?"

"I've kilt a lot of men, Josiah. Some of 'em without much mercy ... maybe it was somethin' I done that the Lord figgers I need t'pay for —" Vin's voice cracked with tears and doubts, achingly vulnerable in his search for some justification of his suffering.

"You stop right there, Vin!" Josiah was at his side, his fingers closing hard over the tracker's wrist. The bones were light, the sinews binding flesh to soul, so fragile that it stabbed to the preacher's heart like a lance. "That ain't the Lord I know. He don't use the evil in men as a sword in His hand."

"Then why'd this happen? I'd rather b'lieve I done somethin' wrong than t'be hurt like this fer no reason, Josiah!" The anguished whisper came from his throat on the edge of a sob, and Josiah caught him as he slumped forward; too weak to fight the tears, the pain, and the mortal weariness that lay on him.

Josiah held him lightly, aware of the wounds beneath the linen and the deeper hurt to the soul. He closed his eyes and prayed for swift wisdom, as Nathan must have prayed for steady hands. "The Lord has his own reasons, Vin. He gives man a wide open road to follow, and we don't always understand the paths he lays before us. Don't know why Chris had t'lose his family, or why my sister is tortured with her demons, or why that man chose t'beat you half t'death. I guess if I knew that, then I'd be the smartest man alive. But I do know the Lord don't give us burdens more than we c'n bear. And I know that when those burdens are like t'crush you — he gives you friends t'help with the carrying of them. You done that for me, Vin. I ain't gonna forget that, and neither are the others." He felt some of the tension leave Vin's shoulders, and helped him lie down. Tanner's eyes were shuttered, his mouth drawn with pain. Josiah rested a hand on his head, a gentle benediction. "Ain't no use in frettin' over what you ca!  
n't see, brother. And there ain't no sin on your soul worth what happened to you."

Vin looked at Josiah, the need to believe that absolution painfully obvious. Josiah swore if there were ever a man with an innocent heart, it was Vin Tanner. Not without sin, not without knowledge of evil, but decent and good, clear down to the roots. Josiah nodded, confirming the truth of his words and smiled down at Vin as he pulled the sheet closer to his chest. "You rest easy now, because if Nathan comes back and sees you've been sent into a risin' fever, he'll kill the both of us."

Vin breathed a ghost of laughter. "Damn right about that, J'siah." The lantern light burnished the stubble on his face and tipped his eyelashes with gold. He sighed, and was gone to sleep as quickly as a babe; accepting for now, the preacher's assurance.

Josiah looked at Vin's fine hands, open and defenseless. Those hands had killed, and most likely they would kill again, but not with reckless cruelty. It was one thing to dispatch life without mercy, it was another not to recognize the cost to your soul. He sat down and began reading from his Bible, letting his voice grow softer until it was no more than a whispered prayer.

* * *

The night wore on, slowly. Ezra paced the stable periodically, both to stay awake and keep warm. He was tempted to ask the stable boy to get him some coffee, but that would hardly have been consistent with his story of desiring someplace to spend the night. When he had warmed up sufficiently, he sat in front of a hay bale and reached into his pocket for his cards, his constant companions, and instead, found his fingers closing around Vin's spyglass. He pulled it out and held it in his hands. Not for the first time, he wondered how Tanner had come to own a Naval spyglass, and an old one, at that. It was a fine instrument; well-kept, despite the tracker's vagabond existence.

Vin and Ezra might be as far apart on the spectrum of humanity as light and dark, but when Ezra held the spyglass, he felt a stab of poignant envy. Maude had raised him to value one thing alone: liquidity. Even as a child, he had been warned against developing a sentimental attachment to possessions. Ezra had managed to conceal from Maude his affection for a few things; mostly childhood toys, books, a penknife that he had won in a oratorical competition at school during one of his more stable periods of existence, but nothing that brought him joy, nothing of beauty and utility that satisfied the soul as well as the eye. The bastard who had nearly taken Vin's life, had tried to strip him of those things he held in his heart, and that was a sin Ezra was not willing to forgive. And he was fiercely glad that they would be able to restore Vin's cherished belongings to him. It was a small enough payment for what he had endured.

* * *

Chris and JD had followed the trail until dusk; then the gunslinger had scouted out a decent spot to camp. There was no reason for concealment and they had built a bright fire that lit a circle in the darkness. Despite the cheerful sounds of the fire and the warmth that reached out to him, JD was miserable. Larabee had retreated into one of his deep silences, and sat with his lean body coiled tight, his hat shadowing his face. Occasionally, the tip of his cheroot would harden as he drew in smoke, and then dim again to a point in the darkness.

"Sure wish Buck and Ezra would get back," JD commented, hoping to lure Chris into replying. It didn't seem natural for two men not to speak to each other when they were both thinking on the same things.

"They need time," Chris said.

"Think they'll find the guy?"

"Maybe."

"What are you gonna do, Chris?"

Silence.

"Are you gonna kill him?" JD asked, his voice sounding very small to his ears. Chris raised his head, and JD wished he had held his tongue. The killer was back. "I guess so, huh?" He could have crawled back into the night, just then.

Chris'ss heart burned in his breast. Why'd JD have to ask him that? The boy was looking at him like he was some sort of monster. Well, maybe he was. Sarah, sure as hell wouldn't recognize him. God, Sarah. He closed his eyes and saw her sweet face. _Don't leave me,_ he thought. But her image faded, as it always did, and he was left staring into the flames. "What would you do, JD?" he asked, his voice gone soft and shivery.

JD's bangs fell over his eyes as he ducked his head. "Don't know," he whispered.

Chris sighed. "Me neither."

JD looked up, not believing he had heard the gunslinger admit to doubt. Larabee was staring into the fire, his green eyes lit with gold, and holding regrets that JD couldn't begin to fathom. The expression was gone in a heartbeat. Chris jetted the butt of his cheroot into the fire. He stretched out full length and settled his head on his folded poncho. "No sense in tying yourself up in knots, son."

The silence bled into the darkness. JD lay down. He tried to close his eyes, but they kept popping open, so he stared up at the stars. "Chris?" he whispered, testing the waters.

"Hmm?"

"What would Vin want us to do?"

Chris raised himself on his elbow. He'd been wondering the same thing. "I reckon Vin'd want to see the bastard that done it. Show him that he's still standin'." He shot JD an amused, tolerant glance. "Get some rest, JD. No tellin' when Buck and Ezra will be back."

"Chris?"

Another muffled, "Hmm?"

"Reckon you're right about Vin."

Silence. But not the same. JD tipped his bowler over his eyes. He could pretend he was sleeping, at least.

* * *

Buck didn't even try to approach the campsite quietly. He cantered in whistling "Dixie," and hoping that Larabee was in a charitable mood. He didn't fancy Chris's gun in his face. "Hey!" he called out. "Got some news fer ya."

Chris was on his feet with the lithe grace of a cat. "You find him?"

A satisfied and not entirely pleasant smile spread across Buck's face. "We did. Left Ezra at the livery makin' sure he don't light out during the night."

JD sat up, having fallen asleep despite himself. He hadn't developed the reflexes to come awake all of a piece like Larabee. He blinked into the firelight. "Buck?"

"C'mon, JD. We gotta ride."

"You sure you got the right man?" Chris asked. Buck didn't think he was exactly concerned with the man's constitutional rights.

"We're sure." He looked at JD, and gave him a proud nod. "Just like you pointed out, JD. Horse had a big ol' notch in his shoe. Found Vin's jacket and harmonica, too. Got his spyglass from a miner who was wagering it in a poker game, and a real good description of the fella he brought it from. We got him, Chris."

If he had expected jubilation from Larabee, he would have been disappointed. The gunslinger looked as grim as if he had been told the man had fled to Mexico. They gathered their possessions, drank the dregs of the pot of coffee Chris had brewed, and set off towards Blue Springs as the sun stained the eastern sky a pallid pink.

* * *

As the dawn strengthened, Ezra's nerves started sparking like it was the hour before a high stakes game. He checked both his guns; his Remington and the sleeve pistol, making sure the mechanism was smooth and the gun easy in his palm. The night spent pondering on the sort of man who would flay Tanner and leave him to die, had not lessened Ezra's animosity. If necessary, he would shoot the bastard dead through the heart, but his true preference would be to hand him over to Chris Larabee for justice of an infinitely more painful nature.

The stable boy came in, yawning. "Mister, you up? Said you wanted to be called at first light."

Ezra ducked down behind the hay and made his voice muffled and weary. "Thank you, young man. I appreciate your promptitude."

"Huh?" The boy shrugged and started to go back out.

Ezra stood up, brushing bits of hay from his jacket. "You wouldn't happen to know what time the gentleman who owns that buckskin geldin' would be leavin'?"

"No, sir. Said it would early though. You lookin' fer him?" The boy screwed his face up earnestly. "I'd stay outta his way, mister. He's mean. He's got a bullwhip."

Ezra's stomach turned. "No, no. Just a matter of curiosity. Thank you, for allowin' me to bed down here."

"Shoot, mister. You paid fer it." He shrugged and started to leave.

"There will be an extra two bits in it, if you alert me to when that gentleman appears."

The boy's eyes lit with interest. "You got somethin' agin him?"

"I don't like surprises, son. That's all." He offered the coins to the boy, who probably had to work two days to make that much. "You let me know, y'hear?"

"Sure thing. You gonna shoot him?"

"I sincerely hope not." The boy gave him an odd look, but left. Ezra picked up Vin's jacket and took up a vantage point in the low loft. There was window overlooking the front street of Blue Springs, and Ezra took out the spyglass. He focused on the trail out of town. He thought it would be a most peculiar irony if Vin's spyglass were to herald the downfall of his tormentor. Buck had surely located Larabee and JD by now, and with luck, they would arrive post haste. _Lord don't let me have to face this demon alone,_ Ezra prayed, and settled in for what he hoped would be a short wait for the arrival of his compatriots.

* * *

Vin watched the same pale dawn rising as Ezra. Nathan had waked him earlier to get him to drink one of the vile teas that had been brewed up for his benefit, and he had not been able to fall back to sleep. The outlines of the windows grew lighter, the interior of Chris's shack became more distinct. Josiah was bunked down on blankets by the fire and Nathan was snoring not five feet from Vin's bed. That they were with him in his need, brought an ache to his chest. He hadn't had much caring in his life, and didn't always take it in the spirit it was given, but he was grateful for it now.

He drew in a cautious breath. Still couldn't breathe worth the damn without feeling like there was a knife twisting in his side, and movement was pretty much the same case everywhere else, but the world seemed much clearer now that his thoughts were not so bent in on himself and the necessity of healing. He'd been fighting against dying, and now he'd have to pull himself t'gether and live. He gave the doorway a sidelong look. The time would come when he'd have to face up to what was out there ... even if Chris and the others found the man who'd done this, there were probably more in line waiting fer their turn to take on Vin Tanner. Right now that thought was a bit more than he could bear — made his heart beat faster and his throat dry up like dust. Might've been better off dead, than t'be a coward.

He shifted painfully, feeling every stitch Nathan had put in his back tighten in protest. It was too late to bite back the involuntary sound he made, and Jackson was upright in a blink.

"You alright there, Vin?"

"Aside from feelin' like the prize piece in a ladies sewin' circle, I'm jist fine, Nathan."

The healer chuckled. "Yeah, reckon you are — you're gettin' feisty."

"I'll let ya know when it's more'n talk."

Jackson came to the bedside and laid his hand on Vin's forehead. A smile of satisfaction transformed his dark face. "Fever's nearly gone. Told you that tea would work."

"Still tastes like horse piss, Doc."

"If it'll make you feel better, Miss Nettie dropped by some custard yesterday. Been kept nice'n cool in the spring." He made it sound like he was offering a rare steak and fried potatoes.

"Rather have some of that ham n'biscuits she was cookin' up," Vin suggested hopefully, but when Nathan returned with the custard, he was glad for the sweetness and the ease of eating it. Chewin' on a slice of ham would have worn him out fer the rest of the day, and he was mighty tired of feeling like a limp rag. He sat back gingerly against the pillows Nathan had nested around him. "Doc, I got some questions fer ya."

Nathan sat down in his chair. "Go on, Vin. If I c'n answer'em, I will"

"I don't rightly remember much about what happened t'me. I recall gettin' up on Peso, but that's about it, until Larabee showed up — and not much after that." He gave Nathan a vaguely apologetic look. "Ever'thin' got mighty hazy — but I want t'thank ya fer taking care of me."

"I only done what I could t'help a friend."

Vin nodded. "Still, you saved my life, and I reckon I owe ya fer that much." A blush came to his cheekbones, the first color other than fever there in days. "But anyways, I's wonderin' if Chris 'n them found my things?" His lashes shielded his eyes, "I-I know they wasn't much, but ..." he shrugged and instantly regretted the action.

"Jesus, Vin. I don't know. They ain't been back, maybe they found 'em. You shouldn't be frettin' on that."

"I ain't bein' selfish, Nathan. They was jist my things ..." His voice trailed off, and Nathan leaned closer, his dark eyes comprehending and sad.

"There ain't nuthin' selfish in wantin' somethin' of your own, Vin. Slaves wasn't allowed to own things, not even the clothes on our backs and the food in our gardens. My mamma made a quilt fer me with her own hands, but when I was sold, the quilt stayed b'cause it belonged to the master. I was seven years old, and I couldn't keep somethin' my mamma made." He shook his head. "You know what the first thing I owned was?" Vin looked at him curiously. Nathan put his hand in his pocket and pulled out an ivory-handled knife. "One of them Yankee doctors gave it t'me. Said it proved I wasn't a slave no more. Someday, I hope I'll be givin' it to a son of mine, t'remember where his daddy come from. So, I reckon men like you n' me know that the value of things don't always lie in the price."

Vin cleared his throat which was suddenly thick. "Hell, I figger I should be grateful. Least I still got Peso." He met Nathan's eyes and the both of them went off into laughter that Vin could ill-afford. Pain made him gasp and released the tears he had been fighting until they streamed down his cheeks, but that was all right. He lay back, his hand pressed against his side, aching and weak, but Lord, alive.

* * *

"Mister! Mister! He's comin'!" The young voice drifted up to Ezra in the loft.

 _Shit._ The inelegant expression was entirely appropriate. Ezra cast one last look out the window at the still empty horizon. Well, if Larabee wanted this man alive, he'd better show up quickly, because Ezra had no intention of tangling with the man on his own just to bring him alive to justice. Dead was dead, whether it came from a bullet or from Chris Larabee's slow hand.

Ezra crept to the edge of the loft and looked down. He was nearly above the buckskin's stall; the drop to the hay was no more than eight feet at the point where the roof sloped down to the wall. He crouched low, sheltering behind several hay bales and waited for his quarry to appear. Lord, but his heart was thundering. He heard a low, gravelly voice speaking, and what sounded like an open-handed slap being dealt; no doubt the poor stable boy was the focus of the gentleman's wrath. Made Ezra dislike him even more. He should have given the boy a dollar.

Boots scuffed through the straw on the floor, and Ezra saw _him._ He seemed to be about Buck's size, but heavier. Straight black hair hung over his ears and collar and fell forward along his jaw, obscuring Ezra's view of his face. He wore a brace of pistols — wonderful, thought Ezra. And a black leather bullwhip was coiled on his hip. Ezra's nerves left him in a sudden rush of outrage as he thought of Vin's back and the brief glimpse of blood and bone that had sent him reeling. His fingers were itching to give the villain a few licks with that whip.

The man started saddling up the buckskin. When he reached for the saddle, he paused, missing what had been there earlier. "Goddamn stealin' little bastard ..." he growled, and reached for the bullwhip. That was Ezra's cue for action.

"I beg your pardon, suh. But I believe you are lookin' for this?" Erza dangled Vin's jacket from his fingertips.

"What the fuck!" In two strides, he was immediately beneath Ezra. With unerring aim, Ezra released the heavy hide jacket to fall over his adversary's head, and dropped the small distance to the ground. As soon as he landed, he knew his luck had run out. His foot skidded on the straw, and he fell awkwardly, his right arm collapsing beneath him. He gathered himself, tried to spring the mechanism on his sleeve gun, and discovered to his dismay that it had been damaged. He turned, hoping to catch his opponent equally off guard and realized too late, that he had underestimated the man's reflexes and strength.

A copper- toed boot kicked out, landing solidly in the gambler's midsection. Ezra's breath was driven out of his lungs, and black specks covered his vision. Before he could suck in a lungful of air, the man struck again, this time going for the ribs. Ezra curled into a tight ball, thinking all the while that this was what had happened to Vin. Lord God, how had he survived the beating long enough for the man to whip him? He felt the boot crunch solidly against his hip and he cried out; the pain was excruciating, debilitating. If he could get his legs under him ... but he couldn't even feel his legs, just a numbing, burning sensation sparking along his nerves.

Then the beating stopped, and Ezra was so grateful for the respite that he never gave a thought to why it had ended until he heard a whistle and a pop over his head. A warning. _At least I'm not tied like Vin was. Oh God ..._ The first thudding lash snapped him out of his protective curl, the second made him scream. The third ...

BANG!

At first, Ezra did not recognize salvation. He thought for a second that he had been shot, then a guttural cry from his tormentor brought him around despite his pain. The whip lay not three feet from him. The man was on his knees, cradling his bleeding hand, and Chris Larabee stood in the doorway, looking like the wrath of God and holding a smoking pistol. Ezra closed his eyes and went away.

* * *

The three peacekeepers galloped into Blue Springs as the first rays of the sun gilded the dusty main street, lending it an illusory beauty; gold wood, blue sky, a fresh day. JD was the only one who noticed it, and that was a fleeting impression before Chris and Buck reined in at the Livery. As they dismounted, a skinny boy ran towards them. He grabbed Chris's saddle and tugged at his arm urgently.

"Hey! Hey! Ya gotta help me! They're fightin' in there, and someone's gonna get kilt! Hurry!" A cry from inside the stables made the boy startle in fear.

Ezra! "Shit!" Chris was off his horse, his gun drawn before Buck and JD could swing down from their saddles. They were still a few paces behind him when he burst through the stable door. "Ezra!" The gambler was down, writhing in pain. The tall, broad-shouldered man standing over him, raised his arm and brought a bullwhip across his back with a snap that was almost as loud as the report of Larabee's pistol. The blow landed, but the whip spun out of the man's hand. He yelped and dropped to his knees, holding his bleeding fingers.

Red. A haze of rage so intense that it blinded him to everything else, and hot as any fire burned through Larabee. Part of his mind knew that it was Ezra lying curled in the straw, but his eyes were seeing Vin — stripped and spread-eagled — his back a mass of welts and bone-deep cuts. His gazed passed over Ezra and went to the whip which had fallen at his feet. He bent and picked it up. The leather was cool to the touch, the handle balanced and cushioned to be comfortable in the grip. He ran the length of it through his hand until he reached the tip. It was weighted to snap like a shot, weighted to cut through flesh. Chris turned to the man kneeling in the straw.

"You fucking sonofabitch!" he whispered hoarsely. He flicked his wrist, and the leather shook out smoothly. He lifted his arm and with a motion like the strike of a coiled viper, brought the lash down across the man's back and shoulder. When the man screamed, Chris's mouth twisted. So easy, like snappin' silk. Again. A line of blood soaked through the man's shirt, and he fell forward into the straw. Again, crossing the first. Again, like a lick of fire. Again, for Vin. Again, for Ezra. Chris's eyes blurred. God, why couldn't he see? Again ...

A large hand clamped over his wrist. When Larabee tried to pull away, the pressure increased until the nerves in his hand went dead and the whip dropped to the ground. Blazing with fury, he rounded on Buck. "Let me go!" he hissed. "I ain't nearly done with the bastard!"

"Godammit, Larabee! You are done! Jesus Christ, yer scarin' JD half t'death and we got other matters t'attend to than beatin' that piece of shit to a pulp!" Buck held him relentlessly, knowing that he could out-muscle Larabee if he had to; hoped he wouldn't, 'cause Chris was a dirty fighter and he didn't relish a tussle with a wildcat. "Leave it go, Chris. Ya gotta leave it go."

Chris's rage bled away under Buck's unflinching challenge. He blinked, felt tears spilling down his face, and when his vision cleared, he saw JD kneeling by Ezra, his face gone white clear to the bone, his hazel eyes enormous. Chris's resistance crumbled and the fight left him. Other matters, including Vin. He nodded at Buck. "Yeah, I know." He exhaled a shuddering breath. "Get that filth outta here."

He watched as Wilmington dragged the dazed man outside. Then, he went to Ezra and knelt down. The gambler's eyes opened briefly, then closed again. "C'mon, Ezra. Wake up." He chafed Ezra's wrists. His hands were icy. "JD, get some water."

The stable boy must have heard the request. Before JD could comply, he came over with a canteen. "Is he alright, Mister?"

"I think so." Chris raised Ezra's head and tipped a few drops on his lips. "Ez?"

Standish spluttered and came to full consciousness, blinking up at Chris. "Mr. Larabee?"

"Yeah."

"That was quite an entrance, though I would have appreciated it a few minutes earlier." Even in pain, he could work that tongue around words better'n anyone Chris knew.

"Sorry, Ezra. Bad timin' on my part. You okay?"

"Give me a moment to recover myself." He took a physical inventory to ascertain that his various body parts were working in concert again. He could move his legs. That was a good thing. His abdomen felt like a horse had stood on it. That was not. His back hurt like hell. Which was more of a worry than he cared to admit. "Mr. Larabee, if you would be so kind as to tell me if I am gonna carry scars for the rest of my life, I'd be grateful."

"Hold tight, Ezra." Chris moved him on his side to take a look. He considered the damage gravely. The gambler's fancy coat and vest had taken the brunt of the whipcord. There was some blood on his shirt, and the skin on his back was broken and still bleeding, but most of the damage appeared to be bruises and welts. Chris wouldn't make light of Ezra's injuries, but considering what might have happened, he was one lucky sonofabitch. "You'll live, and the ladies won't even know anything happened to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Larabee, for that enlightenin' and sympathetic evaluation." He looked at JD's worried face. "Mr. Dunne, if you will lend me a hand, I believe I might be able to stand up, now." Together, they raised Standish to his feet and supported him with their shoulders. "My goodness, but the ground does seem t'be a long ways away ..." he marveled.

Chris looked at the stable boy. "Is there a doctor in this town?" he asked.

"Nope. Heard there's a healer in Four Corners," the boy said helpfully. "You okay, Mister?"

Ezra looked at the boy and recalled what he had promised himself. "Mr. Larabee, I have two bits in my coat pocket. If you will give them to the young man. He was a great help to me." Chris handed the money to the boy. His eyes were as big around as the coins.

"Thanks, mister! Come back again, and I'll treat yer horse real special."

Ezra started laughing. "Young man, do not take offense at this, but I hope to never again grace your fair city with my presence."

"Huh?"

Chris shook his head. "He means thanks, but he don't reckon he'll be passin' through."

"Well, uh." The boy scuffed at the straw. "What're ya gonna do with that feller?"

"Bring him t' justice." That voice and those eyes sent cold shivers up and down the stable boy's spine, and he was mighty glad when that slim, dark, shadow walked out into daylight.

* * *

"Gag him." Chris ordered Buck. "I don't want to hear one word from him until we get back to my place." He started taking the saddle off his horse, his usually smooth actions, jerky and tense When Buck gave him a puzzled look, he said, "I ain't gonna let that bastard ride on Vin's saddle. He's took enough already." When the stable boy led the buckskin out of the stable, Chris put Vin's saddle on his own mount, and tied the tracker's jacket on the back of it.

He crossed to where the man sat against the water trough. He glared at Chris over the gag Buck had tied around his mouth. His hand was roughly bandaged, but as far as Chris was concerned, he didn't care if the bastard got blood poisoning and died a hard, slow, death. He was only sorry that he hadn't been able to get a few more licks in with the whip before Buck had stopped him. His anger wasn't abated, merely banked. Chris crouched down to eye level. "I'm aimin' t'get you back to Four Corners alive, but you blink at me funny, and I'll take you down one piece of flesh at a time. You understand?"

The man stared at him with hot eyes, but he understood. "Get him into the saddle, Buck. Tie him on if you have to."

He turned to Ezra, drooping against his horse's side. "You sure you're up t'this? You could stay in town fer a few days, 'til you feel up t'riding."

Ezra shook his head. "You could not pay me enough, Mr. Larabee."

"I'll be ridin' hard, Ezra."

"Then tie me on my saddle." His green eyes hardened with determination to match Chris's own. "I want to be there when you deliver this man up to Mr. Tanner."

Chris nodded shortly. "All right. Let's ride. JD, you ready?"

"Sure, Chris." He was subdued, his eyes slipping away from the gunslinger's, and Larabee realized the damage his unleashed rage had done. He was sorry, but a man couldn't change his feelings, couldn't change the past. And he did not regret a lash that had landed on that man's back.

They rode out and not one of them looked back at Blue Springs.

Chris hadn't lied, he intended to ride hard, and for several hours they did just that. He was focused on the road ahead, afraid to think on what lay at the end of it, what he would find. Vin had looked to be on the mend, and Nathan was as good a man as any, but Chris had seen too many men in the war who had seemed on the edge of recovering, only to worsen and decline into death. He could see only that darkness, and he rode towards it.

Buck reined in next to him, and Chris slowed his pace slightly. "Chris, I know yer lookin' ahead, but we gotta stop ridin'. Ezra's in a bad way."

"Shit." Chris turned around. The gambler was hanging on to his saddle, but his body was weaving precariously, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his cheekbones. "Why didn't he say somethin'? He ain't normally short of words."

"Reckon he wants t'get back as bad as the rest of us. He does a powerful lot of jawin', but his heart's in the right place. He knows what we owe t'Vin."

"We'll make camp where Vin did."

"You sure you wanta do that? Seems like it ain't the most restful place in the world right now."

Chris's mouth tightened. "It's close, with fodder and water. And if it makes that bastard twitch, it'll be worth every minute."

"Makes _me_ twitch, Larabee." But he knew there was no arguing with Chris when he got that look in his eyes. "I'll make sure Ezra stays in the saddle," he sighed. He dropped back to ride next to Ezra, who was looking worse by the minute. Buck had never thought the gambler had much grit beneath that fancy exterior, but he was wrong. Made him consider Standish in a new light — least 'til the next time he lost at poker. "You hangin' in there, Ezra?" he asked. "We're makin' camp soon."

Ezra nodded. "Give Mr. Larabee my regrets. I underestimated the extent of my incapacity." He reeled in the saddle, and Buck's long arm snaked around him.

"You'll make it, Ezra. Jist lean against me, and I'll see that y'do."

They made a silent, tense, camp. Ezra, normally talkative, was too weary and in too much pain; Buck had to help him from the saddle, and half-carry him over to where JD was laying the fire. As he tended to the gambler, he kept a weather-eye out for Larabee, who had dragged their prisoner over to a scrub pine and tied him there, bound hand and foot, and still gagged. Buck didn't much like the look in Larabee's eye, but couldn't blame him for his feelings. The small dell seemed haunted by spirits, and they were all on edge.

He hunkered down next to Standish. "You mind tellin' me where it hurts most?" he asked.

"I don't suppose you would be referin' to my pride?"

"I don't think so, Ezra. Now seein' as Nathan ain't on hand, you got a choice b'tween me and Larabee ta doctor ya. So unless you want Chris takin' a look at yer achin' carcass, you'll be straight with me.Ya gonna let me help ya?"

Ezra pointed silently to his hip, and closed his eyes in resignation. "Do your best, Mr. Wilmington."

Buck removed the gambler's gunbelt and unbuttoned his fancy vest and shirt. "Shoot, Ez. You got a bruise the size of a plate on yer belly, and another risin' over yer waistband. Undo them trousers, while I git some water heated."

"I fail to see what the application of hot water will do, Mr. Wilmington."

"It'll loosen up some a' them muscles so's you kin stretch out instead of lyin' all kinked up." When Ezra didn't argue the logic of his treatment, Buck returned with hot water and Ezra's spare shirt from his saddle bag. He made a pad of the shirt, and slid the gambler's trousers below his hips. He pressed the warm compress over the bruise, heard Ezra's indrawn hiss of pain, and joked to take Standish's mind off his doctoring, "Don't worry, Ez, yer virtue's safe with ol' Buck."

"As much as I appreciate your reassurance, I think I can do the self-medicatin.' But I thank you."

"Sure thing, Ezra. You keep that on 'til it cools down, then do it again. I'll bring ya some coffee."

One soul down, two t'go. Buck went over to JD, huddled in front of the fire, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. "Hey, kid."

"Buck."

"Yer mighty quiet there, boy. You mind tellin' me what's wrong?"

JD shook his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. "Nuthin'.

Buck sighed. To give himself time to think, he poured himself some coffee and sat cross-legged next to JD. He knew what the problem was, getting the boy to admit it was hard. JD had some pretty high ideals; made it mighty difficult t'live up to them. He'd let the kid down himself once or twice. In the past two days JD had seen Vin's painful vulnerability, and now Chris's demonic temper — and neither was the stuff idols were made of. "JD, remember what I said 'bout Vin, and not havin' no halo around his head?"

"Yeah."

"Well, ya gotta remember that 'bout Larabee, and then some. The man's carryin' a load a pain that's fit to break most others. An' he n' Vin ... they're like two sides a' the same coin — one gits hurt n' th'other bleeds right along with him. Y'understand?"

JD nodded. "I ain't never seen anything like Chris in that barn, Buck. It was like he ... like hurtin' that man felt good to him. I seen Chris kill before. But not like that."

Buck's blue eyes were sad and dark. "I have, JD. Man's got demons inside. He fights 'em everyday. But they break out, son. You ain't lived long enough, or hard enough t'understand Chris Larabee." He stretched out his legs. "Git some rest, kid."

JD shook his head and stood up. "I ain't tired, Buck. Think I'll see t' the horses."

"Stay close."

"I will." JD left Buck's side and walked over to where the horses were tethered. There were times when he felt closer to the animals than he did to his fellow humans. Horses weren't complicated — unless you counted Peso. He ran his hand down his horse's long, warm neck and laid his head there, seeking comfort in the simplicity of that life. When he raised his head, Chris Larabee was standing before him.

JD looked away quickly. "I'll get outta your way, Chris."

"JD, I'm sorry 'bout what you saw back there."

"You sorry you did it?"

"No. I'd be lyin' if I said I was." He looked into JD's hurt hazel eyes. "I can't change my nature, JD. I can't forgive what that man did to Vin. And if Buck hadn't stopped me, I would've gladly whipped him 'til there was no blood left in him. I'm just sorry you had to see it." The gunslinger's hat shaded his face; he turned and walked away. JD watched him for a moment. Buck was right, he didn't understand Chris Larabee, and he wasn't sure he ever wanted to understand him. But he'd just seen the human side of him win over his demons, and that would have to be enough for now.

* * *

Vin listened to Nathan and Josiah sleeping. They were too near, the walls were too close, and he thought that if he didn't get outside, he'd lose his mind. Cautiously, biting his lip to catch any sounds that might take him unawares, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was the first time he had been upright in four days, and the effort left him dizzy. When things stopped spinning, he tested his weight. His thighs cramped from the deeply bruised muscles, but he waited until they loosened, then rose slowly, all a-tremble. The first steps he took were as shaky as a new-born colt's, but gradually as the blood started moving through his legs, they strengthened. He went over to the trunk where Chris kept his clothes, raised the lid, and found a pair of pants and an old shirt. Carefully, feeling every injury tighten and ache, he drew on the trousers and slipped the shirt over his shoulders. He couldn't stretch his arms out enough to put them through the sleeves, but at least he was covered.!  
The pants rode low on his hips, and his belly was hollow beneath the arc of his ribs. Lord, he was as skinny as Nettie told him he was!

He shuffled as silently as he could over to the door and went outside. There was a chair set there, and he sank into it gratefully, wincing at the pressure on his back. One more step would have been beyond his strength. But he could breathe! He let the dawn wind stir his hair and watched the sun rise. He'd been thinking about what Nathan had told him, about possessions and things. It hurt that the bastard who'd near killed him had taken those small tokens he'd come to treasure, but it hurt more that he'd taken things from Vin's heart: trust, courage, faith. Be mighty hard t'get those back. Just thinkin' on it made his head ache. He closed his eyes and tipped his head against the back of the chair. When he heard a footstep behind him, his nerves jerked unpleasantly and he braced for the onslaught.

"God damn it, Tanner! What the hell d'ya think you're doin'? Git back inside here!"

"I ain't goin' back in, Nathan. I got out here, and I'm stayin'. I'se tired of bein' cooped up an' fussed over, so leave me alone fer a few minutes b'fore you start jawin' at me."

"You ain't got th'sense you was born with," Nathan grumbled and came outside. "Here," he draped a blanket over Vin's lap. "Least keep yo'self warm." He disappeared inside, and came out a while later, fully dressed and with a mug of coffee. "I reckon this ain't gonna hurt you."

Vin grinned happily. "I'm right obliged t'ya, Nathan." The coffee was hot and tasted like heaven. "Suppose I could have a pilla fer my back?" he asked, with a sly glance at the healer.

"I kin tell, yo' gonna be more trouble gettin' well than you was bein' laid out flat, Tanner."

"I reckon." Nathan gave him a sour look and went to get the requested pillow.

The porch faced east, and as the sun rose higher and warmer, Vin closed his eyes and dozed again. Nathan watched him anxiously, but the tracker seemed to be resting better than he had been inside, and Nathan believed that what a man felt in his heart would help his body heal. He marveled at Tanner's powers of recuperation. The man looked about as substantial as a will o' wisp, but there was pure steel inside that slight frame.

It had been a wonder he had survived that first night; Nathan hadn't told anyone how close a call that had been, or how great his fears for Vin's recovery had been. Any number of things might have killed him: blood loss, fever, infection, internal hemorrhage, shock — things that Nathan didn't have the power or the knowledge to heal. God had been watching him that night, as surely as he had ever watched over any man.

He heard Josiah come out on the porch, heard the creak of the big man's bones as he stretched out the kinks from the night spent on the floor, and his exhalation as he welcomed the day. He looked up at the preacher and smiled at the expression on Josiah's face when he saw Vin.

"He get out here on his own?"

"I sure didn't carry him, Josiah."

"Stubborn cuss, ain't he? You wouldn't think it t' look at him."

"Th' ruckus y'all 're makin, ain't lettin' me git my rest," Vin yawned and opened a sleepy eye. "Mornin', Josiah."

"You're lookin' like a man who's decided to live, Brother Tanner."

"Figger I ain't got much of a choice ... B'tween Nathan's doctorin', yer prayin', an' Miss Nettie's spoonin' broth down me, I's never so looked after in m' life. Seemed like the least I could do t'thank —" He broke off, his eyes narrowed into the sun. "Riders comin'," he said, his hand going instinctively towards the gun that wasn't there. He sat up, suddenly straight. "Looks like Chris n'th' others."

The group of horsemen rode slowly up to the house. They were all dusty and worn, hollow-eyed from little sleep and less food. Vin's eyes met Chris's first, and saw the welcoming light in them, a warmth in the cool depths that spoke more than words. Larabee dismounted stiffly and walked up to the porch. "Hey, partner."

"Cowboy." The grin touching Vin's mouth lifted the world off Chris's shoulders.

"Don't call me cowboy."

The others dismounted behind him. Buck first, going to Ezra's mount and helping the gambler down. Nathan was off the porch in a single leap. "What's wrong with you all? I no sooner git one a'you healed up, than another one is droppin' at my feet. What happened to ya, Ezra?"

"A humiliation too painful to contemplate, Mr. Jackson. I failed to reckon the odds against me properly."

"Git inside an' let me take a look."

Ezra raised his hand. "Patience, doctor. I will in a moment, I swear."

"Where's JD?" Vin asked sharply, fear slicing into him. He looked at Larabee's impassive face. "Chris?"

"He's bringin' up the rear. As sheriff, he's got custody of our prisoner. We got him, Vin. We got him."

Vin closed his eyes and sank back in the chair, his heart taking off in a gallop that stole his breath away. He wasn't ready for this ... wasn't ready to put a face to the shadow that had been haunting him. He needed time ... to forget, to find his courage, to heal.

Josiah laid a hand on Vin's shoulder. "Chris, this don't seem like the best idea. Vin ain't well enough yet —"

"No. I'm alright, J'siah." Vin forced strength into his voice and looked at Chris. "Who is it?"

"I don't know, Vin." Chris was abashed at the admission. "Hell, I was so riled over what happened, that I gagged the man up, so's I wouldn't have to listen t'him whine about how mean I was." The sound of approaching horses spared him further explanations.

JD and the prisoner rode in, slowly. JD had insisted that the man be treated like any other prisoner — risking Chris's wrath to make sure he was given water and cleaned up half-decent. JD didn't like doing it, but he stubbornly claimed that if they didn't do it his way, any case they had against the accused could be appealed to Judge Travis on the grounds of cruel and unusual punishment. So it was a recognizable figure who was dragged forward and made to face the man he had left for dead.

Vin stared long and hard into the man's face before he spoke. "Clyde Darwell. His name is Clyde Darwell." The hate he saw blazing in Darwell's face made him feel a bit sick inside, but this time he was not alone and vulnerable. He reached for Nathan's arm and let the healer pull him to his feet. The blanket slid away from his body, the bruises on his belly and chest revealing the abuse he had suffered at Darwell's hands. It looked worse than it felt, he reckoned, judging from JD's gasp. He released Nathan's arm, and without taking his eyes from Darwell, he came down from the porch and faced him; slight and unbowed despite the bruises and the pain it must have cost him to stand upright before his tormentor. His blue gaze bored into Darwell's. "I ain't dead," he said quietly. "JD, take that gag out, so I c'n ask him a question." JD complied without a word. Vin waited patiently, still staring at Darwell with burning intensity. "Why?" he asked. That was all he wanted to know.

"You killed my brother," Darwell rasped. "You brung us in, and Caleb died in prison."

Vin spoke softly, directing his words to the six men he felt standing at his side. "It's true. Clyde Darwell n' his brother went on a rampage back in Texas. Robbed three stage stations. I's huntin' em, when they hit a fourth. Happened t'be owned by a friend a' mine. Tom O'Brian. He n' his wife Maria, had a daughter. Risin' twelve, and as pretty a little thing as I ever seen. I tracked the Darwells to their station, hopin' I could catch 'em. I's too late. Tom n' Maria were dead, and their little girl ..." his voice nearly closed down on him. He had to look aside and blink away his tears. "She'd been raped by Caleb. That little girl died in my arms, bled her life away. So I went after the Darwells. Took me three weeks, but I found 'em and brung 'em in. I warn't too kind about it, y'see. S'pose Clyde's right when he says I kilt his brother. But I'd do it agin, ev'n if it meant bein' beaten an' whipped half-dead, I'd do it agin."

All those words took up what was left of Vin's strength. His legs went weak beneath him, and he crumpled into Chris's arms, his weight bearing the gunslinger to his knees. Larabee looked up at Darwell. "If I'd known this story, you'd be layin' in pieces across the desert."

"Fuckin' bounty hunter. I was only lookin' after my own," he sneered.

"So am I." Chris gathered Vin up in his arms and rose to his feet. "JD, take him to jail. Wire Judge Travis." He looked at Darwell one last time. "See you in court." Then he turned and went inside.

* * *

Between Vin needing time to recover his strength, and the others' need for food, healing, and sleep, it was dusk before they were all conscious at the same time. Buck fried up Nettie's ham, they shared out the basket of food she had left, and when they were replete, they finished up the last bottle of Chris's whiskey. Larabee sipped his small portion and decided that it tasted better when you didn't drink alone. He took a mug of watered-down liquor to Vin, who had been banished to the cot for the rest of the day by Nathan after his collapse.

Chris sat down on the edge of the bed. "How're ya doin', partner?"

"Alright, I reckon. Gettin' there, anyways." His eyes came up briefly before they were veiled again. "I never thanked ya proper, Chris."

"For what?"

"Savin' my life."

"Hell, Vin. T'morrow you'll be returnin' the favor." He clinked his glass against Vin's cup. "To tomorrow?" he suggested.

"Better'n today." He sipped at the watered down whiskey and grimaced. "Shit, I ain't gut shot, Larabee."

Chris laughed silently. "Doc's orders." He looked up as Ezra limped over. Nathan had given him a clean bill of health, but there was no way the gambler was going to move with anything near his customary grace for a long while. Buck trailed behind him, a bundle of some sorts in his arms.

"Mr. Tanner," Ezra began. "Despite our misadventures in Blue Springs — a truly dreadful town I'd avoid in further travels — we came across some items that you might like to have."

Vin's eyes flew to Ezra's face. "Y'all —" His traitorous voice cracked as it always did in high emotion, and his cheeks burned with embarrassment. Buck came forward and set the bundle across Vin's legs.

"Reckon these b'long t'ya, Vin."

He had no strength to control the trembling of his hands. He fumbled at the ties, aware that everyone was watching him. When the bindings finally released, he shook out the canvas wrapping. He could not quite contain his gasp. A fall of buckskin fringe; his jacket. A hard shape that when uncovered revealed the smooth brass cylinder of his spyglass. Awed and amazed, Vin ran a slender forefinger down its length reverently. He'd thought to never see it again. He moved aside another fold of buckskin, and there was his harmonica. His hand closed over it, and he knew tears were tracking down his cheeks, but he could not stop them, or the emotions welling in his breast. He ached fit to bust his heart open and when he looked up, blinking against the dazzle of lantern light, he discovered that his friends had tactfully drifted away, knowing that he was not a man comfortable beneath scrutiny, no matter how well intentioned.

Scarcely visible in the shadows, Chris watched in silence. He knew what it was like to lose everything. Knew the hole it left in a man's soul. Folks who said it was just _things_ had no heart. God, how he wished he had _things_ — a piece of jewelry that Sarah had worn next to her skin, a toy that Adam had cherished — anything that would retain an impression of their presence on this earth. He had nothing but the bitter taste of ashes and fading memories. He'd give his life to spare his friend that hell. Be worth it too, judging from the way the tracker handled his possessions, like he was relearning a part of himself. Not wanting to disturb that moment of quiet privacy, Chris drifted outside.

Stories came naturally to these men. Whiskey and the knowledge that they had done good, made the words flow freely. Vin caught an occasional snatch of conversation, the comforting rumble of their voices, impressions of their faces; Nathan's wide smile, the gleam of Ezra's gold incisor, JD's eyes growing rounder at each tale, Buck's sprawling frame sliding ever lower in his chair as he laughed, the deep timbre of Josiah's chuckle. No sign of Larabee.

Vin closed his eyes, concentrating on what was not seen. A scent of tobacco wafted in through the cracked window. He rose, and with the silence that was second nature to him, slipped from the room. The porch was empty, but he sensed Chris nearby, so he sat in the chair and reached for the blanket that had been left there earlier. He was still holding the harmonica, and he fingered it, feeling the familiar scars and dents, the areas he had worn with his touch. Wasn't much to most folks, but when you lived a life stripped to the essentials, you knew what was important to your heart.

"Hey, pard. Nathan know you're out here?" Chris asked. He stepped out of the shadows, darkness drifting into the light spilling from the windows.

Vin snorted. "Clyde didn't kick me in the head, Larabee."

Chris grinned around his cheroot and sank down on the top step, his back up straight against a post, his long legs bent at a sharp angle. "JD said Darwell told him your rifle is back at th'hotel in Blue Springs. Buck will ride out tomorrow t' get it for you. 'Fraid your hat is gone."

"Don't think I want it back if'n Clyde took t'wearin' it. Hat's easy. Rifle's hard. Tell Buck I 'preciate him fetchin' it fer me."

Chris gave Vin a narrow study. "Question?"

Vin raised a brow. "Cain't promise an answer, but you c'n ask."

"How'd Darwell git the drop on you, Vin?"

Vin was silent for a moment as he framed his answer. "Ya seen that black hair on him?"

"Indian?"

Vin nodded. "Half. Him n'Caleb was raised Kiowa. S'why it took me so long t'track 'em. Was like trackin' myself. Took me a while t'catch on t'their signs." His head dropped against the back of the chair. "Ain't a day goes by, Chris ..."

Light and shadow edged Vin's profile; gilding one high cheekbone. He was all angles and planes, his features sharpened and defined by the pain that had not released him. His fingers were closed over his harmonica, the harmonica Chris had never heard play a recognizable tune. It made no difference to him if he never heard a sound from it. What mattered was that it was back in Vin's hands.

The tip of Chris's cheroot brightened as he drew in a mouth of smoke and released it with a soft sigh. "I was thinkin' when this is over, I might take some time t'go up country. Hunt, fish, ponder on my flaws and failings ..." His green eyes glinted with humor. "Care t'come with me?"

Vin tilted his head towards his friend. "Reckon I could use some ponderin'."

His wide blue gaze met Chris's. Peaceful despite the lingering shadows of pain, acknowledging with gratitude the offer Chris was making. He'd feel better where he could breathe; but the wounds on his body were no deeper than the wounds to his soul. The thought of being alone made him feel shivery and fragile. Darwell had done that to him. He'd have to find his way back to his courage, and that was a hard and lonesome path. He closed his eyes, drifting again, but knowing that when he woke, Chris would still be there. Always there. And when his body was healed, and his heart was strong enough, Chris Larabee would walk that blood trail with him.

 **The End**

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[Home](http://lalibrary.net/m7/index.html)  |  [Part One](http://lalibrary.net/m7/stories/ow/a-f/bloodtrail01.html)  |  [Part Two](http://lalibrary.net/m7/stories/ow/a-f/bloodtrail02.html)

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